ALL  GATHERED  ROUND  ONE  OL'-FASHIONED  CHRIS'MAS  DINNEK  I' 


SONGS   OF    TWO    CENTURIES 


BY   WILL    CARLETON 


AUTHOR  OF  "FARM  BALLADS"   "FARM  FESTIVALS"  "CITY  LEGENDS' 
••  RHYMES  OF  OUR  PLANET "  ETC.  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW   YORK   AND    LONDON 

HARPER     AND     BROTHERS,     PUBLISHERS 

1902 


COPYRIGHT,  1902,  BY  WILL  CARLETON, 

All  Rights  Reserved. 
Published  November,  1902. 


To 
THE   MEMORY   OF   THE   NINETEENTH 

AND 

THE    SUCCESS    OF    THE    TWENTIETH 


775701 


PREFACE. 


These  poems  were  written  partly  in  the  Nineteenth  and  partly  in  the 
Twentieth  Century:  hence  the  name  of  the  book. 

It  was  a  great  privilege  to  live  within  the  Nineteenth,  with  all  its  won 
derful  achievements.  Few  that  had  the  privilege,  could  have  wished  that 
their  lot  had  been  cast  in  any  other.  It  has  been  upon  the  whole  the 
most  wonderful  world-drama  of  all,  thus  far. 

The  Twentieth  Century  has  already  made  a  fine  beginning — largely  as 
a  continuation  of  the  Nineteenth,  but  also  with  some  achievements  of  its 
own.  What  it  will  do  before  it  grows  old,  is  a  problem:  but  a  problem  full 
of  hope. 

If  this  book  carries  with  it  the  spirit  of  the  century  not  long  past,  and 
aids  in  some  measure  the  aspirations  of  the  one  that  is  now  upon  us,  its 

highest  purpose  will  be  accomplished. 

C. 


CONTENTS. 


SONGS  OF  MONTHS  AND  DATS.- 

PAGE 

The  Old  Christmas  Dinner 15 

The  Queen  of  the  Days 17 

Washing  ton- Month 19 

What  Shall  We  Give  f 20 

Farmer  Stebbins  as  Santa  Claus 22 

Exceptiri*  Tom , 24 

Arbutus 27 

The  Eclipse   28 

Ancestors 31 

In  September 34 

Farmer  Stebbins  at  the  Fair 35 

A  Contrast 38 

The  Thanksgiving  Dance 39 

Eagle   and  Turkey 42 

Uncle  Jake's  Thanksgiving 43 


8  Contents. 

BONOS  OF  HOME  LIFE  : 

PAQD 

Words  that   We  could    Under  start 47 

As  well  as  I. 51 

Fixing  the  Clock 53 

The   Mocfcing-Bird 55 

Up  in  the  Loft 57 

To  a  Dead  Bird 59 

The  Two  Boys 60 

Blowing  the  Feather 62 

Harvests ./ 64 

Stars  of  the  Grasses 65 

Good-by,    Old    Horse 66 

SONGS  OF  THE  RIVERS: 

To  Go  A- Swimming 69 

Where  We   Watered  tlie    Team 71 

Chant  of  tJie  St.  Lawrence 72 

The   Oarsman's   Story 75 

Out  of  Alexand^   Bay 77 

From   Corn-field  to  River 79 

SONGS  OF  TEE  MOUNTAINS: 

Prologue 83 

To  the  Mountain  Profile 85 

To  the  Same 86 

In  the  Mountains,  you  Know 88 

Some  Country  Solace 90 

The  Maid  of  the  Mountain 93 


Contents.  9 
SONGS  OF  THE  NATION: 

PAGE 

Greater    America 97 

Song — Language   of  the  Flag 99 

Song —  Westerland 100 

New  England? s  Home-Call 101 

Tli  e  March  of  the    Volunteers .  .  1 04 

Do  not  Forget  the   Wounded 105 

The  Passing  of  the  Mother 106 

The  Absent  Soldier  s  Child 110 

A  Song  for  Our  Fleets 112 

Gridley 113 

Comin    Back  to  '  Pelier 115 

In  the   Wreckage  of  the  Maine 117 

Cuba  to  Columbia 118 

Columbia  to   Cuba 120 

Colloquy  of  Grief 122 

A  Man  Has  Died 124 

TJie   Victory-  Wreck 125 

Liberty's    Torch 126 

v° 
So  NO  s  OF  PLEASURE  AND  PAIN: 

Farmer  Stebbins  Awheel 131 

The    Funeral- Express 133 

Took  Johnnie  to  the  Show 135 

381 : 137 

To  the  Czar 139 

To   Fannie   Crosby 142 

The  Maiden-Mother 144 


10  Contents. 

PAGE 

The  Old  Church-Bell 145 

Monologue  of  Pain 147 

Bicycle-Bong 149 

De  Temper achewer 150 

Always  a  "Kick" 152 

TJie  Convict  and  the  Stars 153 

NOTES:..  155 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


FACING  PAGE 

"All     gathered      round     one       oV -fashioned     Christmas 

Dinner  " Frontispiece 

"  Theifs  Somethiri*  here  that's  wrong" 52 

"  Where  we  watered  the  Team " 70 

"  Where  smile  the  clustered  Landscapes  " 84 

"  It  was  Morning  Amongst  the  Hill-tops  " 94 

c<  Our  Iron  Fleets,  of  grim  and  savage  Beauty" . .  112 

"Newest  of  Freedoms  Daughters,  my  Help  went  out  to 

Thee  " 120 

"Liberty's  Radiance  throwing  over  the  Seas  and  the 

Lands".,  126 


SONGS  OF  MONTHS  AND  DAYS. 


THE  OLD  CHEISTMAS  DINNER, 

One  oP-fashioned  Chris'mas  dinner's  wuth  a  dozen  nowadays, 

That  delivered  by  instalments,  in  the  sleek  new-fangled  ways. 

Take  me  back,  0  almanac!  to  the  time  when  sev'ral  "courses" 

Come  together  in  a  bunch,  an7  united  all  their  forces! 

Twas  a  time  when,  j'ined  together,  old  an'  young  an'  saint  an'  sinner 

Could  be  found  all  gathered  round  one  oP-fashioned  Chris'mas  dinner! 

[Thus  said  Ahab  Adams,  merchant,  from  a  stress  of  thought  to  free  him, 

To  his  brother  Shubal  Adams,  who  had  come  from  Maine  to  see  him.] 

Oft  I  think  that  dinner  over — how  once  more  I'd  like  to  try  it! 

But,  you  see,  it  can't  be  managed:  all  my  money  wouldn't  buy  it. 

Can't  fetch  back  the  old-time  frame-work;  can't  arrange  the  proper  meetin': 

Most  of  all  the  folks  I'd  ask  there,  long  ago  has  quit  their  eatin'. 

First  I'd  want  a  slice  o'  winter  that  would  fetch  out  what  was  in  you: 
Air  a  haft  o'  glitterin'  blades  sharp  as  if  they  meant  to  skin  you; 
Froze-up  cloud-boats  near  the  hills,  tryin'  hard  to  make  a  landin', 
Trees  with  snow-white  blankets  on,  sleepin',  like  the  hosses,  standin'; 
Fences  peakin'  through  the  drifts,  clear  plate-glass  across  the  river — 
All  the  chimneys  breathin'  steam  crawlin'  upward  with  a  shiver; 
Sun  a  yellow  chunk  of  ice — failed  to  furnish  any  heatin', 
An'  remains  for  nothin',  'cept  to  be  present  at  the  meetin'; 
Critters  in  the  barn  sharp-set  as  they  was  before  you  fed  'em; 
Snow  an'  frost  unusual  sassy — yell  out  ev'ry  time  you  tread  'em. 
That  would  be  a  val'ble  mornin',  wuth  the  trouble  of  appr'isin'! 
Glad  that  Chris'mas  happened  'round,  on  a  day  so  appetizin'! 

Then  I'd  want  our  Dad  on  deck — up-an'-down  as  last  year's  cider — 
Made  us  toe  the  mark,  you  know — but  a  fust-class  good  provider: 
When  he  slung  his  banner  out — "Come  an'  hev  a  Chris'mas  dinner", 
EVry  one  that  got  the  word  knowed  his  stomach  was  a  winner. 
How  they  hus'led  through  the  snow! — horses  kcp'  their  bells  a-ringin', 
Runners  creakin'  like  a  sign — gals  a-cacklin'  an'  a-singin'; 


16  Songs  of  Months  and  Days. 

OF  folks  wrapped  up  double-bulk — baby-bundles  half  a  dozen — 
Dogs  that  wouldn't  have  thanked  the  dogs  of  the  king  to  call  'em  cousin! 
So  Fd  hev  'em  come  an'  come,  ere  the  morning  hour  was  through  with; 
Come  in  wagon-loads  on  runners — more  than  we  knowed  what  to  do  with! 

Mother— wouldn't  I  hev  her  there? — would  I — well,  somehow  or  other, 

[  haiii't  le'amed  so  I  kin  speak  stiddy  yet,  concernin'  Mother. 

I  see  times  that  I  would  give  half  my  days  of  growin'  older, 

For  a  half  an  hour  of  her,  with  her  gray  head  on  my  shoulder. 

[Thus  said  Ahab  Adams,  merchant,  proud  of  his  success,  with  reason. 

And  his  good  financial  prospects  growing  brighter  every  season.] 

When  the  folks  was  all  set  down,  then,  a  proper  need  confessing 

I  would  hev  Grandfather  Jones  ask  a  good  oP-fashioned  blessin'. 

Not  a  short,  impatient  one,  such  as  often  I  hear  muttered, 

But  a  long  one,  that  improved  appetites  while  bein'  uttered. 

I  would  hev  the  victuals  there,  on  the  start,  as  fur  as  able, 

An'  wouldn't  dare  to  waste  a  prayer  on  a  bare  and  empty  table. 

"Now,  take  hold  an'  help  yourselves!"  father'd  say,  with  kind  inflections; 

An'  the  crowd  that  set  around  wouldn't  need  no  more  directions. 

Though  they  all  had  journeyed  far,  ere  the  clock  said  half  a  minute, 

Uncle  Tom  would  make  first  base  'fore  the  others  could  begin  it. 

Uncle  Jake  could  eat  the  most,  through  his  ways  discreet  and  subtle; 

Aunt  Melinda's  knife  would  fly,  swifter  than  a  weaver's  shuttle. 

Cousin  Kuth  would  pick  her  plate,  every  bit  of  food  espyin'; 

Neighbor  Spoon  would  very  soon  hev  a  wishbone  up  a-dryin'. 

Cider-apple-sauce  too  strong  would  make  Deacon  Wilson  hazy; 

Cousin  Sammy'd  eat  mince  pie  till  he  drove  his  mother  crazy. 

Forty  others,  more  or  less,  caperin'  round  in  Chris'mas  clover, 

Makin'  friendships  still  more  strong — healin'  former  fusses  over; 

Knives  a-flashin',  plates  a-crashin',  pewter  spoons  an'  forks  a-jinglin'; 

Everything  by  chance  contrived  for  to  set  your  blood  a-tinglin'; 

All  as  cozy  as  cud  be,  in  a  happiness  bewild'rin'; 

Oh,  if  Christ  could  come  in  there,  He'd  hev  said,  "Keep  at  it,  children!" 

[Thus  said  merchant  Ahab  Adams,  with  rich  presents  to  him  clinging, 
While  in  Christmas  peals  and  chimes,  all  the  city-bells  were  singing; 
And  he  sank  in  thoughtful  reverie — tried  with  all  his  might  to  guess 
Why  his  joy  was  so  much  greater  when,  his  wealth  was  so  much  less; 
How  new  splendors  and  rich  banquets  could  not  satisfy  the  inner 
Soul  and  body,  like  the  dear  sweet  old-fashioned  Christmas  dinner!] 


The  Queen  of  the  Days.  17 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  DAYS. 

Now  all  of  the  days  one  day  were  met 

With  sober  and  anxious  mien, 
To  choose  which  one  they  owed  the  debt 

Of  crowning  it  king  or  queen. 

Then  New  Year  shouted,  "I  always  led 

The  column,  and  always  will; 
Give  me  the  crown  for  my  gallant  head!" 

But  all  of  the  days  were  still. 

Then  Easter  spoke — ixhe  beautiful  child — 

And  told  her  gentle  will; 
They  tenderly  looked  at  her  and  smiled, 

But  all  of  them  yet  were  still. 

Victoria's  natal  day  was  there, 
Hedged  round  with  martial  skill, 

And  a  glorious  reign  without  compare; 
But  all  of  the  days  were  still. 

July  had  come  with  its  ordnance-tone 
The  world  of  the  West  to  thrill; 

And  far  was  the  birth  of  a  nation  known! 
But  all  of  the  days  were  still. 

Thanksgiving  lifted  her  thanks  on  high, 

And  winsomely  ate  her  fill; 
The  days  looked  up  to  the  distant  sky, 

But  all  of  them  yet  were  still. 

Now  Christmas  came,  divinely  fair, 
Her  eyes  as  a  star-beam  bright; 
2 


Songs  of  Months  and  Days. 

The  gold  of  the  sun  was  in  her  hair — 
Her  form  was  a  ray  of  light. 

She  held  in  the  world's  delighted  gaze 
Good  gifts  for  living  and  dead; 

She  smiled  at  all  of  her  sister-days, 
But  never  a  word  she  said. 

All  knew  that  the  friendly  strife  was  done, 

And  never  a  word  said  they; 
But  knelt  and  crowned  the  beautiful  one, 

AB  Queen  for  ever  and  aye. 


Wash  ington-Month.  1 9 


WASHINGTON-MONTH. 

February — February — 

How  your  moods  and  actions  vary, 

Or  to  seek  or  shun. 
Now  a  smile  of  sunlight  lifting, 
Now  in  chilly  snowflakes  drifting; 
Now  with  icy  shuttles  creeping, 

Silver  webs  are  spun. 
Now  with  laden  torrents  leaping, 

Oceanward  you  run, 
Now  with  bells  you  blithely  sing, 

'Neath  the  stars  or  sun; 
Now  a  blade  of  murder  bring 

To  the  suffering  one; 
February— you  are  very 

Dear,  when  all  is  done: 
Many  blessings  rest  above  you; 
You  one  day  (and  so  we  love  you) 

Gave  us  Washington. 


20  Songs  of  Months  and  Days. 


WHAT  SHALL  WE  GIVE? 


What  shall  we  give  on  a  Christmas  day? — 

Money? — they  say  it  is  sordid  and  old, 
And  hearts  that  are  seeking  the  upward  way, 

Are  crushed  to  earth  by  the  weight  of  gold. 
And  still  does  the  bank-note's  whisper  bring 

The  palace  of  pleasure  yet  more  near; 
And  fair-faced  coin,  as  together  they  ring, 

Are  silver  and  golden  bells  of  cheer. 
So  let  not  sentiment  war  with  thrift; 
But  mingle  them  both,  in  a  Christmas  gift. 

Give  me  a  cluster  of  precious  gems! 

Stars  of  the  earth,  that  were  born  to  rise 
Into  affection's  diadems — 

Into  the  lover's  changeful  skies. — 
Though  all  the  jewels  of  rock  and  tide 

Should  weave  together  in  one  strong  ray, 
'Twere  nought  but  a  burst  of  glow,  beside 

The  deathless  glory  of  Christmas  day! 
Yet  costly  love  is  the  earth-cloud's  rift; 
And  gems  are  a  goodly  Christmas  gift. 

I  see  the  broideries'  colors  flow 

Through  palace-parlors  and  humble  rooms: 
Flit  delicate  fingers  to  and  fro — 

The  ivory  shuttles  of  living  looms. 
Toil  on  at  your  queenly  task,  0  queens! 

And  wield  your  sceptres  of  form  and  hue; 


What  Shall  We  Give?  21 

The  dainty  fittings  you  give  life's  scenes, 

Will  last  eternity^s  drama  through. 
Earth's  clouded  curtains  will  fade  and  shift; 
But  loving  toil  is  a  deathless  gift. 

What  shall  we  give  on  a  Christmas  day? — 

Whatever  a  heart  to  a  heart  can  spare; 
Whatever  through  the  dark  can  throw  a  ray — 

Whate'er  can  fetter  the  hands  of  care. — 
Not  all  the  riches  of  earth  and  sea 

Could  build  their  statues  one  soul  above; 
And  presents,  if  rightly  weighed,  must  be 

Hung  first  on  the  golden  scales  of  love. 
While  ever  to  Heaven  our  thanks  uplift: 
For  God  invented  the  Christmas  gift. 


22  Songs  of  Months  and  Days. 


FARMER  STEBBINS  AS  SANTA  GLAUS. 

We  went  to  Northtown  visiting,  my  good  old  wife  an7  me, 

An7  thought  that  we  would  bathe  ourselves  in  Chris'mas  joy  an7  glee; 

For  Sarah  Ann,  a  buxom  dame,  an'  daughter,  too,  of  mine, 

Resides  there  with  her  older-half  an'  children  eight  or  nine, 

An'  so  we  gathered  gifts  enough  to  make  'em  all  content, 

An'  took  the  train  an'  landed  there  the  very  day  we  went. 

The  children  warmly  greeted  us  an'  crowded  round  my  chair, 
With  four  a-perchin'  on  my  knees,  an'  young  'uns  still  to  spare; 
An'  asked  about  my  spectacles,  an'  how  I  growed  my  wig, 
An'  if  my  papa  bought  my  teeth  before  I  got  so  big; 
An'  how  my  whiskers  come  to  bleach;  an'  other  questions  prone 
To  make  a  mortal  realize  that  younger  days  have  flown; 

An'  if  I  ever  looked  it  up  how  far  I  was  around, 
An'  when  I  run  if  it  would  shake  the  whole  adjacent  ground; 
An'  if  the  your-correct-weight  box  didn't  think  I  was  a  lot, 
An'  if  I  wouldn't  have  to  put  two  pennies  in  the  slot; 
With  other  questions  well  designed  to  give  a  hint  to  me 
That  I  was  not  a  first-class  sylph,  so  far  as  they  could  see. 

An'  when  I  told  'em  fairy-tales,  they  wouldn't  believe  a  word, 

An'  said  the  Sin'bad  sailor  things  could  never  have  occurred; 

An'  all  the  pleasant  little  lies  that  used  to  cheer  my  youth 

They  set  upon  without  delay  as  destitute  of  truth. 

An'  when  of  Christmas  mysteries  in  solemn  tones  I  spake, 

They  laughed  an'  said  that  Santa  Glaus  was  all  "a  bloomin'  fake." 

So  Christmas  eve  I  slyly  told  my  daughter  Sarah  Ann: 

"I'll  show  the  tots  a  little  sight  to  laugh  at  if  they  can. 

You  rake  the  fireplace  clear  o'  fire,  not  tellin'  them  the  cause, 

An'  I'll  come  down  the  chimney-way  dressed-up  as  Santa  Glaus. 

It  isn't  very  fur  to  climb — the  weather's  pretty  mild, 

An'  I  would  do  three  times  as  much  to  interest  a  child." 


Farmer  Stcbbins  as  Santa   Clans.  23 

I  went  an'  clad  in  hairy  garb,  with  whiskers  long  an'  white, 
An'  other  things  to  paralyze  the  inexperienced  sight, 
An'  had  some  sleigh-bells  bright  an'  new  a  hangin'  on  my  arms, 
An'  pockets  full  o'  Christmas  things  to  add  unto  my  charms; 
An'  with  the  strongest  ladder-rope  that  I  could  find  in  town, 
1  entered  in  the  chimney-top  an'  clambered  slowly  down. 

My  goodness  sakes!   Whoever  heard  of  such  untimely  luck? 

The  chimney  narrowed  all  at  once,  an'  suddenly  I  stuck! 

An'  hung  there  like  a  roastin'  hen  a-waitin'  to  be  brown, 

For  spite  of  all  my  effortin'  I  couldn't  get  up  or  down. 

An'  then  the  chil'ren  heard  the  noise  and  run  distressin'  fleet,, 

An'  looked  and  yelled:  "It's  Grandpa  Steb:  we  know  him  by  his  feet!" 

An'  then  their  mother  had  to  tell  what  I  had  tried  to  do, 
Whereat  their  little  fancies  sprung  the  subject  to  pursue: 
They  asked  me  if  I'd  traveled  far,  if  chimneys  injured  coats, 
An'  where  my  span  of  reindeers  was,  an'  if  they'd  like  some  oats; 
An'  told  me,  with  a  childish  greed  for  Christmas-gathered  pelf, 
If  I  would  throw  the  presents  down,  I  needn't  come  myself; 

An'  there  I  hung  for  quite  a  while,  with  fury  in  my  heart, 
Until  they  brought  a  mason  in,  who  took  the  bricks  apart; 
An'  though  they  made  the  children  stop  an'  sent  'em  off  to  bed, 
I  knowed  what  they  was  thinkin'  of,  an'  what  they  prob'ly  said. 
An'  when  the  mornin'  light  appeared,  an'  breakfast-time  occurred, 
They  sat  around  the  table  there  forbid  to  say  a  word; 

A-sufferin'  so  to  laugh  at  me,  afraid  that  I'd  be  gruff, 

An'  longin'  for  their  presents,  too — I  knowed  it  well  enough. 

An'  then  a  tear  come  in  my  eye,  an'  like  a  fond  old  dunce 

I  went  an'  dug  the  presents  out  an'  give  'em  all  to  once. 

An'  then  I  says,  "If  Santa  Claus  is  what  you  call  'a  fake', 

These  pretty  things  he  brought  fur  you  is  real  an'  no  mistake." 

An'  then  they  up  an'  danced  around  an'  kissed  me,  one  by  one, 
An'  hugged  me  harder  than  the  blamed  old  chimney  just  had  done, 
An'  with  a  thousand  looks  of  love  incumbered  me  with  thanks, 
An'  made  me  like  'em  more  an'  more  in  spite  of  all  their  pranks; 
An'  one,  the  prettiest  of  the  whole,  who  always  took  my  part, 
She  smiles  an'  says:  "It's  Gran'pa  Steb:  we  know  him  by  his  heart!" 


24  Songs  of  Months  and  Days. 


EXCEPTIN7  TOM. 

'Twas  on  a  cloudy  winter  day, 

An'  snow  was  gently  falling 
When  Tom  an'  I  upon  the  sleigh 

A  heavy  load  was  hauling 
We  was  committee — him  an'  me — 
To  find  the  annual  Christmas-tree 

(With  thanks  for  all  our  toil  an'  search), 

To  deck  the  Presbyterian  church. 

It  wasn't  any  little  shrub 

With  which  we  two  was  dealin' — 
We  knowed  the  top  would  almos'  rub 

The  meetin'-house's  ceilin'; 
Two  yoke  of  oxen  drawed  in  line, 
An'  one  was  Tom's  an'  one  was  mine; 

An'  trudgin'  'long,  we  fell,  we  two, 

A-gossipin'  like  women  do. 

We  done  our  own  longcomin's  brown, 

An'  other  people's  knavery; 
We  talked  of  all  the  girls  in  town, 

Not  countin'  Gretchen  Avery. 
We  wasn't  on  speakin'  terms  that  day 
Regardin'  her,  as  one  might  say; 

She  had  two  would-be  beaux,  you  see, 

An'  one  was  Tom  an'  one  was  me. 


Except  in    Tom.  25 

But  Tom  he  acted  over-bright 

For  one  with  even  chances; 
An'  hinted  of  the  past  delight 

Of  parin'-bees  an'  dances; 
And  how  some  one  a  gift  would  get 
To  drive  'em  farther  into  debt; 

An'  other  little  hints,  in  jerks, 

That  started  up  my  thinkin'-works. 

The  tree  was  taller  still  that  night, 

As  if  t  had  been  a-growin', 
With  presents  on  it  fair  an'  bright 

An'  candles  near  'em  glowin', 
And  all  the  folks  for  miles  aroun* 
Had  brought  their  presents  into  town: 

The  tree  bore  all  things,  sweet  an'  sour, 

From  candy-sticks  to  bags  of  flour. 

An'  Tom  an'  I  each  other  sought, 

Bein'  fellow-men  in  slavery; 
But  he,  the  sly,  a  gift  had  brought, 

To  hang  for  Gretchen  Avery. 
'Twas  somethin'  in  the  jewel  line — 
I  watched  him  peek,  and  saw  it  shine; 

He  gave  a  switchin'  look  at  me 

An'  went  an'  put  it  on  the  tree. 

An'  then  I  says:  "I  won't  be  beat 

In  cunnin'  or  in  bravery!" 
An'  so  I  went  an'  sought  a  seat 

Adjoinin'  Gretchen  Avery. 
An'  she  was  rather  kind,  for  her — 
More  like  a  sister,  as  it  were; 

An'  fluttered  some'at  from  her  perch, 

There  in  the  Presbyterian  church. 

She  asked  me  all  about  the  tree, 

An'  where  I  found  it  growin'; 
An'  whispered,  thanks  was  due  to  me, 

For  such  a  boon  bestowin'; 


26  Songs  of  Months  and  Days. 

But  I  was  minded  to  be  fair, 
An'  spoke  her  honest,  then  an'  there: 
"Tom  is  the  man  for  you  to  see: 
He  worked  four  times  as  hard  as  me." 

An'  then  she  glanced  at  Thomas,  near, 

An'  smiled  unduly  pleasant; 
An'  then  I  spoke  up:  "Say,  see  here: 

Suppose  one  gets  a  present 
On  yonder  tree,  as  well  they  may — 
Then  shouldn't  they  take  it,  anyway?" 

An'  quick  at  me  the  words  she  thrust: 

"How  can  you  ask?    Of  course  they  must!" 

So  when  they  all  marched  round,  you  see, 

Their  gifts  to  be  a-fetchin', 
I  gave  a  jump  into  the  tree, 

Eight  there  in  front  of  Gretchen: 
An'  words  was  nowhere  near  my  tongue, 
But  on  my  arm  a  motto  hung: 

"This  is  a  present,  all  can  see, 

To  Gretchen  A  very — made  by  me." 

Now  wasn't  she  a  han'some  show, 

To  all  the  people  gazin'? 
An'  now  she  looked  like  drifted  snow, 

An'  then  like  sunsets  blazin'; 
Then  like  a  queen  she  stood  up  there, 
An'  never  flinched  or  flecked  a  hair; 

But  sweetly  said  to  Elder  Brown: 

"Please  kindly  hand  my  present  down?" 

An'  goin'  home,  she  says  to  me, 
In  tones  that  still  is  haunted: 

"I  think  tonight  that  all  I  see 
Got  just  the  gift  they  wanted." 

And  I  didn't  say  much  in  our  walk, 

Not  bein'  strong  upon  the  talk; 
But  couldn't  sift  my  feelings  from 
The  pityin'  words:  "Exceptin'  Tom!" 


Arbutus.  27 


ARBUTUS. 

Under  the  snow,  under  the  snow, 
The  leaves  of  the  trailing  arbutus  grow; 
Toiling  the  earth  that  loves  them  nigh, 
But  hoping  to  some  day  see  the  sky. 

Under  the  snow,,  under  the  snow, 
The  flowers  of  the  trailing  arbutus  glow; 
E'en  in  the  dark  their  duty  done, 
But  hoping  to  some  day  kiss  the  sun. 


28  Songs  of  Months  and  Days. 

THE  ECLIPSE. 

May  28,  1900. 

A  gleaming  sun,  well  hoisted  up  the  sky. 
Round  as  when  Ossian  sang  his  feeble  praise, 
Bright  as  when  Joshua  gave  it  word  to  halt; 
Waiting  to  be  overshadowed  by  the  moon — 
Meek  planetette — dog  of  the  humble  earth. 
Waiting? — no:  we  were  waiting:  what  to  him 
If  for  an  hour  some  few  rays  were  flung  back 
From  the  chilled  world?    'Twas  not  Earth's  ruling 

star, 

But  we — that  waited:  we  who  long  decades 
Had  watched  for  him  to  vanish  in  mid-day, 
That  we  might  scan  the  comrades  that  he  kept, 
And  trace  rare  secrets,  darkened  by  his  light. 
'Twas  we  that  waited — once  again  to  know 
If  figures,  called  from  long  and  wakeful  nights, 
That  had  for  generations  an  event 
For  this  great  hour  forewarned — told  truths  or  lied. 

The  grass-lawn  stretched  to  greet  a  southern  sky, 

By  verdant  trees  eclipsed;  the  scolding  birds 

Threw  agile  shadows  on  the  tossing  grain; 

A  cloud,  far  in  the  deep  mysterious  west, 

Darkened  another  cloud;  the  constant  stars 

Were  covered  by  the  flaming  light  of  morn; 

The  city,  half  a  hundred  miles  away, 

That  glared  at  us  last  eve  through  all  that  space, 

With  home-made  lightnings — distance  now  obscured. 

The  great  sun  went  about  his  dally  task, 

As  ever  in  the  death-darked  centuries 

That  shrink  in  Historj^s  coffin.    Not  far  off 

He  smiled  at  grave-stones — each  a  marble  groan — 

Voicing  the  sad  and  helpless  grief  of  man, 


The  Eclipse.  29 

That  life  must  ever  be  eclipsed  by  death. 
He  seemed  to  smile  that  Earth,  which  night  on  night 
Throws  its  own  self  in  shadow — now  should  prate 
At  shadow  of  the  moon. 

Oh,  not  alone 

We  stood  upon  the  breezy  verdant  hill, 
And  hailed  the  high  event:  a  million  eyes — 
Ten  million  eyes — made  journey  with  our  own 
Unto  the  burning  globe:  from  hill  and  plain — 
From  field  and  palace — souls  were  traveling 
To  yonder  soul  of  planets. 

Lofty  minds 

That  hunger  always  for  the  infinite, 
Had  a  most  godly  feast;  ignoble  eyes 
Looked  at  the  sky  for  once;  life's  vaudeville 
Viewed  a  rare  act — a  solemn  pantomime 
Billed  for  a  century;  superstition  crouched 
In  haunts  of  mingled  terror  and  delight, 
Half  doubting  and  half  fearing. 

Ah!  just  now 

A  tiny  gold-clad  sentry  of  Time's  camp 
With  slender  finger  points  the  magic  hour 
That  generations  could  not  wait  to  see: 
The  breathless  instant  is  not  far  away. 

'Tis  here!    It  fastens  to  the  sun's  sharp  edge 
And  leads  its  many  black-draped  followers  on: 
The  dragon  that  Columbus  one  dread  day 
Discovered  while  the  savages  knelt  low 
And  made  of  him  a  god,  is  here  again; 
And  slowly  creeps  the  shadow. 

Down,  and  down, 

It  delves,  into  the  gold-mine  of  the  sky. 
Our  sun  is  but  a  fragment  of  a  sphere; 
And  now  a  crescent;  'tis  a  new  new-moon 
Brighter  than  any  that  we  e'er  have  seen, 


30  Songs  of  Months  and  Days. 

Greets  our  right  shoulder! — Now — there  is  no  sun — 
No  moon. 

The  green-tipped  pines  upon  the  lawn 
Have  gathered  dusk,  and  sung  a  twilight  song; 
The  birds  fly  home  and  nestle  'mid  their  leaves; 
Through  this  new  night  the  cattle  now  begin 
Their  stated  pilgrimage  from  field  to  fold; 
Brave  steeds  fling  out  their  nostrils  in  affright; 
And  e'en  the  stars  seem  puzzled;  for,  just  now, 
The  coy  and  wayward  Mercury  peeps  down, 
Now  first  for  many  years  by  day  unveiled; 
And  comes  a  gleam  from  old  Orion's  belt. 

Night  has  come  back,  that  but  a  few  short  hours 
Left  us  as  ever:  what  had  she  forgot — 
Dear,  dreamy  Night? 

The  morning  walks  in  black; 
The  air  grows  chill;  a  weirdness  is  abroad; 
'Tis  like  a  fragment  of  the  great  last  hour; 
And  well  a  mind  not  tutored  by  the  voice 
Of  God-given  Science,  might  fall  dead  with  fright. 

But  look! — once  more  a  crescent! — light  again 
Is  victor  in  this  battle  of  the  sky! 
Broader  and  broader  grows  the  curve  of  gold — 
Deeper  and  deeper  nestles  gloom  in  gloom — 
And  now  at  once  the  welcome  sun  again 
Illumines  earth,  and  sends  a  message  down: 

"This  sunset  and  this  sunrise  in  mid-sky, 
Both  in  the  hour — are  signals  that  may  mean — 
If  man  so  long  such  wonders  can  foresee — 
What  cannot  God?    If  He  can  dim  the  sun 
With  worlds  for  clouds,  and  sweep  them  off  again, 
Can  He  not  wipe  away  your  clinging  tears, 
And  move  the  fragile  clouds  'neath  which  you  walk, 
0  children  of  His  heart?" 


Ancestors.  31 


ANCESTORS. 

We  went  to  the  Fourth  of  July — 

Marjorie — she  an'  I — 

Where  drums  was  beaten,  an'  chickens  eaten, 

An'  banners  floated  high; 

An'  though  I  hoped  she  would  some  time  love  me, 

Still  I  felt  that  she  felt  above  me; 

(I  was  awkward,  an'  hung  my  head, 

An'  she  was  a  reg'lar  thoroughbred.) 

Marjorie,  by  the  by, 

Had  more  ancestors  than  I; 

She  had  a  knack  of  goin'  back 

Along  in  History's  covered  track, 

An'  pickin'  her  great-grandfathers  out, 

An'  stan'in'  'em  up  to  be  bragged  about. 

She  had  a  book  of  'em,  all  in  rows, 

Some  several  thousan',  I  suppose; 

One  was  a  colonel,  an'  one  a  squire, 

An'  one  was  a  king,  or  somethin'  higher; 

There  were  three  brothers  on  fortune-hunts, 

That  all  come  over  the  sea  at  once; 

An'  some  of  'em,  by  the  by, 

Helped  make  the  Fourth  of  July; 

But  though  their  acts  she  couldn't  condemn. 

She  hadn't  much  time  to  dwell  on  them, 

But  sailed  her  gallant  ancestral  bark 

Almost  in  hailin'  of  Noah's  ark! 

An'  I — poor  I — 


32  Songs  of  Months  and  Days,. 

Hadn't  nothin'  much  to  reply, 
Excep'  that  gran'father  had  fine  ways, 
An'  played  the  bugle  on  trainin'  days. 

Marjorie,  han'some  an'  high 

(I  loved  her,  by  the  by), 

Enjoyed  the  day  in  a  sight-seein'  way, 

An'  so,  for  a  time  did  I. 

But  we  found,  on  the  picnic  ground, 

A  chap  from  some  other  village  we  knew, 

An'  he  had  a  pedigree-weakness,  too; 

They  learned,  that  a  thousan'  years  ago, 

They  was  relations,  or  nearly  so; 

An',  standin'  there  by  a  maple  tree, 

Talkin'  about  their  pedigree, 

They  went  a-wanderin',  hand  in  hand, 

(Speakin'  in  figures)  by  sea  an'  land; 

An'  I  hadn't  much  to  say  that  was  fine, 

Excep'  that  a  great-great-uncle  of  mine 

Was  (in  the  Methodist  Church,  you  know,) 

Presidin'  elder,  some  years  ago. 

So  feelin'  sort  of  alone,  you  see, 

An'  terrible  short  of  pedigree, 

But  never  carin'  to  mope  around 

If  any  cheerfulness  could  be  found, 

I  visited  gaily,  with  smiles  to  spare, 

The  secon'-prettiest  maiden  there. 

An'  she,  though  cozy  an'  sweet  an'  fine, 

Didn't  hang  on  any  ancestral  line, 

An'  had  no  forebears  to  be  thankful  for, 

Exceptin'  one  in  the  Blackhawk  war. 

There  on  the  Fourth  of  July, 

This  secon'-best  girl  an'  I, 

We  was  a-talkin',  gay's  could  be, 

When  Marjorie  come  right  up  to  me, 

With  manners  that  caused  me  some  surprise, 

An'  shadows  of  tears  in  her  great  black  eyes; 

An'  "will  you  kindly  go  with  me, 

And  help  me  find  my  mother?"  said  she. 


Ancestors.  33 


An'  off  we  went — the  finest  of  girls, 
Bearin'  the  blood  of  a  dozen  earls, 
An7  I  with  none,  as  one  might  say, 
Exceptin'  what  I  had  brought  that  day. 
We  left  the  young  man  by  the  tree, 
Standin'  alone  with  his  pedigree; 
While  the  gal  I'd  talked  to,  again  began 
A-makin'  eyes  at  her  best  young  man. 

Mar j  one  drew  a  sigh, 

There  on  the  Fourth  of  July, 

An'  made  no  bother  to  find  her  mother, 

Her  mother,  proud  an'  high, 

An'  always  a-hangin'  nigh; 

But  walked  an'  walked  an'  hung  her  head, 

An'  "Why  are  you  hateful  to  me?"  she  said 

"I  couldn't  be  hateful",  says  I, 

"To  one  that  I've  loved  five  years  or  more, 

An'  never  dared  to  tell  it  before, 

Because  she  was  born  in  the  lap  of  fame, 

An'  I  hadn't  an  ancestor  to  my  name." 

She  walked  a  little  closer  to  me: 

"I've  got  enough  for  us  both",  says  she: 

An'  looked  as  if  she  would  cry, 

There  on  the  Fourth  of  July. 


34  Songs  of  Months  and  Day 


'S. 


IN   SEPTEMBER 

The  Summer  seems  pausing  a  moment  for  rest, 

In  September; 

The  Autumn  is  watching  her  out  of  the  west, 
And  soon  he  will  come  in  his  fire-dappled  vest. 
But  how  like  a  mourner  the  forests  will  wail, 
And  how  on  the  meadows  will  rattle  the  hail, 

In  November! 

With  clusters  of  beauty  the  vines  are  aglow, 

In  September; 

How  sweetly  and  softly  the  zephyrs  can  blow, 
How  wed  to  the  sunlight  the  streamlets  that  flow! 
But  all  of  a  sudden  a  chill  in  the  air 
Creeps  up  like  a  spirit,  and  whispers  "Prepare 

For  December!" 


Farmer  Stebbins  at  the  Fair.  35 


FARMER   STEBBINS  AT   THE   FAIR. 

They  brought  the  biggest  oxen  that  you  ever  ever  see, 

They  fed  'em  an'  they  combed  'em  in  a  manner  new  to  me; 

They  stood  'em  up  together  like  a  row  of  checker-corns, 

Fur  to  play  a  game  o'  primiums  fur  some  ribbins  on  their  horns. 

Mac  was  there,  an'  Jack  was  there, 

Si  was  there,  an'  I  was  there, 

An'  vowed  that  bulls  of  Bashan,  or  of  any  town  or  nation, 
Couldn't  match  us  .what  was  doin'  in  the  bellowin'  an'  the  mooin', 

That  was  floatin'  through  the  air,  at  the  Cobb  County  Fair. 

They  brought  the  biggest  roosters  that  had  ever  ever  crowed, 

An'  the  hens  that  cackled  loudest  when  you  met  'em  in  the  road, 

An'  the  butter  that  is  yellerest  when  you  yank  it  from  the  churn, 

An'  the  cheese  that  when  you  bite  it  gives  your  mouth  the  most  concern. 

Sal  was  there,  her  gal  was  there, 

An'  Lu  was  there,  an'  Sue  was  there, 

Fan  was  there,  an'  Ann  was  there, 

An'  the  Sarys  an'  the  Marys,  with  selections  from  their  dairies, 
While  of  eggs  the  finest  pickin's — Natur's  vain  attempts  at  chickens, 

There  was  plenty  an'  to  spare,  at  the  Cobb  County  Fair. 

They  brought  the  sleekest  hosses  that  we'd  ever  sighted  yet, 
An'  they  trotted  'em  an'  run  'em,  an'  forbid  the  folks  to  bet; 
As  is  oft  in  human  natur',  in  that  case  it  did  befall 
That  the  one  we  tuk  fur  smartest  was  the  slowest  of  'em  all. 

'Than,  he  guessed,  an'  Dan,  he  guessed, 

An'  Sim  computed,  an'  Jim  computed, 


36  Songs  of  Months  and  Days. 

An'  Lo,  he  wagered,  an'  Jo,  he  wagered, 

U-n/  bet,  an'  I  bet; 

An'  'twan't  what  you'd  be  seekin'  in  a  church- trustee  or  deakin; 
An'  we  didn't  do  any  winnin'  that  was  big  enough  fur  sinnin'; 

But  we  couldn't  take  a  dare,  at  the  Cobb  County  Fair. 

They  got  a  pig  an'  greased  it,  though  I  think  'twould  run  without, 
An'  whoever  grabbed  an'  held  it,  'twould  be  his,  beyond  a  doubt. 
So  we  neighbors  'greed  to  try  it,  jest  to  show  what  we  could  do, 
An'  to  salt  it  in  our  barrels  fur  to  help  the  winter  through. 

Smalley  grabbed  it,  an'  Hawley  grabbed  it, 

An'  Whaley  missed  it,  an'  Bailey  missed  it, 

Lafe  Calkins  clutched  it,  Sam  Hawkins  clutched  it, 

Abe  Maxson  fell  over  it,  Frank  Jackson  fell  over  it, 

Jim  Fry  rolled  under  it,  an'  I  rolled  under  it; 
But  it  shifted  its  position  sleek  as  any  polertician, 
An'  where'er  we  flung  our  mettle,  there  the  grease  appeared  to  settle; 

So  we  suffered  wear  an'  tear,  at  the  Cobb  County  Fair. 

There  come  the  finest  maidens  you  would  notice  any  day, 

An'  I  didn't  take  the  trouble  fur  to  look  the  other  way: 

E'en  a  nettle  or  a  thistle,  if  possessed  of  human  power, 

Wouldn't  turn  their  eyes  a  minute  from  a  sweet  an'  bloomin'  flower. 

Taller  gals  an7  smaller  gals, 

Comely  gals  an'  humly  gals, 

Giddy  gals  an  stiddy  gals, 

Gold-made  gals  an'  old  maid  gals, 

Blue-eyed  gals  an'  true-eyed  gals, 

Spread-haired  gals  an'  red-haired  gals — 
All  a-losin'  of  their  mothers,  an'  a-goin'  round  with  others, 
Walkin',  runnin',  flirtin',  dancin',  an'  invar'ably  entrancin': 

'Twas  excitement  to  be  there  at  the  Cobb  County  Fair. 

I  took  some  fall  pippins  big  as  ever  tempted  Eve, 

An'  they  tempted  everybody  that  beheld  'em,  I  believe: 

No,  the  jedges  didn't  jedge  'em,  an'  they've  never  jedged  'em  yet: 

For  before  they  come  acrost  'em,  ev'ry  single  one  was  e't! 

Lon  e't  'em,  an'  John  e't  'em, 

An'  Grace  e't  'em,  an'  Ace  e't  'em, 


Farmer  Stcbbins  at  the  Fair. 

An'  Homer  e't  'em,  an'  Warner  e't  'em, 

Old  Phoebe  e't  'em,  Bill  Beebe  e't  'em, 

The  Ryans  e't  'em,  .th'  O'Briens  e't  'em, 

The  Sloanses  e't  'em,  the  Joneses  e't  'em, 

Tom  Griggs  e't  'em,  an'  the  pigs  e't  em: 

There  was  ev'rybody  chankin'  without  e'en  a  sign  of  thankin'; 
An'  I  driv  home  a-rippin',  'thout  a  primium  or  a  pippin; 

An'  a  mighty  little  share  of  the  Cobb  County  Fair. 


38  Songs  of  Months  and  Days. 


A  CONTEAST. 

October  held  a  carnival, 

When  Summer  days  had  fled; 
His  halls  were  trimmed  with  blue  and  gold, 

And  banners  flaming  red. 
Now  all  the  world  with  fowl  and  fruit 

Were  at  his  table  fed; 
The  richest  wine  of  bough  or  vine 

Before  his  guests  was  spread. 

October  held  a  funeral, 

When  Summer  nights  were  fled; 
And  all  the  leaves  and  all  the  vines 

And  all  the  flowers  were  dead. 
The  richly  colored  drapery 

Was  burial  robes  instead, 
And  shorn  of  pride,  he  lay  and  died 

Upon  a  humble  bed. 


The  Thanksgiving  Dance.  39 


THE   THANKSGIVING   DANCE. 

Wall,  November's  on  us  now — such,  as  up  to  date  is  livin'- 

An'  it  won't  be  many  sunsets  'fore  we've  got  a  new  Thanksgivin'. 

Mebby  with  ungrateful  heart  an'  a  prayin'  mouth  to  screen  it: 

Sometimes  form  is  better'n  nothin' — even  when  they  do  not   mean  it. 

[Thus  said  Ahab  Adams,  merchant,,  quiet  'mid  the  city's  Babel, 

Lounging  in  his  inner  office,  while  his  feet  adorned  a  table.] 

Well,  we  boys  looked  forward  fur  it — used  to  long  to  give  it  greetin'— 

Half  the  day  inside  a  pew — half  a-guzzlin'  an'  a-eatin'. 

We  was  then  ungrateful  scamps — all  religious  joys  a-shirkin'; 

But  we  yelled  fur  any  minute  that  would  let  us  loose  from  workin'. 

Most  of  us  is  laborers  now — with  our  feelin's  much  amended; 

Fur  we're  maybe  at  the  work  that  the  Lord  fur  us  intended ! 

[Then  he  hugged  his  elder  brother,  with  a  motion  kind  but  bearish: 

He  was  the  devoted  pastor  of  a  first-class  city-parish.] 

Yes,  we  mostly  liked  Thanksgivin',  or  the  day  we  used  to  call  so, 
When  we  used  to  eat  an'  eat  till  the  stomach-ache  came  also! 
But  the  best  one  I  remember  was,  ^.ost  ev'ry  hour  an'  minute, 
One  Thanksgivm'-party  with  no  Tlianksgivin'-dinner  in  it! 

Recollect  in  '53?  how  the  crops  come  in,  that  season! 
Everything  bobbed  up  as  ef  it  possessed  some  special  reason; 
Corn-ears  looked  like  clubs  of  gold — wheat  made  faces  at  the  measure; 
Oats  an'  rye  an'  punkin  vines  seemed  as  if  they  growed  for  pleasure. 


40  Songs  of  Months  and  Days. 

Round-eyed  grape-stems  'twas  a  joy  even  just  to  hev  a  sight  of; 

Apples  mebby  like  the  one  Eve  went  wrong  to  get  a  bite  of. 

An'  I  recollect  you  said,  as  you  dug  a  two-pound  tater, 

"Ef  there's  anything  that's  failed,  surely  'tisn't  old  Mammy  Natur!" 

Then,  to  mate  the  whole  concern  more  entrancin'  an3  delightin', 

Nations  far  across  the  sea  fell  to  bickerin'  an'  to  fightin'; 

Killed  each  other  for  the  sake  of  their  boundaries  enlargin'; 

An'  we  Yankees  hed  to  feed  'em — an'  we  didn't  forgit  the  chargin'. 

After  all  the  lean  lank  years,  now  hed  come  a  fine  an'  fat  one; 

An'  we  capered  round  as  ef  all  the  rest  would  be  like  that  one. 

So  we  said,  "There's  fun  ahead":  our  hard  days'  works  we  would  sof'n 

With  a  dinner  in  our  minds  such  as  didn't  come  very  of'n. 

But  there's  one  thing  you  can' bank  on:  earthly  joys  is  few  an'  fleetin': 
Dad  and  Mam  went  off  that  week  to  a  'Sociation'l  meetin'! 

Well,  seven  brothers  in  one  house,  with  no  .women-folks  to  aid  'em 
Couldn't  make  vict'als  utter  thanks — though  we  worked1  hard  to  persuade 

'em: 

Flour  an'  dough  for  us  wouldn't  go;  fire  had  ruther  roast  our  fingers; 
Gracious!  how  that  cookin'-bee  in  the  mem'ry  lurks  an'  lingers! 
So  we  dumped  into  a  ditch  all  our  culinary  labors; 
An'  you  says,  "Le's  hev  a  shindig  an'  invite  the  nearest  neighbors!" 

Gracious!  how  we  took  the  word  'mong  the  misters,  maids,  an'  madams, 
"There  will  be  a  dance  tonight  at  the  house  of  Deacon  Adams!" 
What  surprise  was  in  all  eyes;  how  with  questions  they  would  work  us! 
'Twouldn't  hev  rattled  folks  much  more  ef  we'd  hed  a  three-ring  circus. 
But  they  come  at  candle-lightin' — scores  of  'em  with  curious  greeting 
First  time  Deacon  Adams'  house  ever  hed  that  sort  of  meetin'! 

Cross-eyed  Baker  worked  the  fiddle:  though  no  sweet  professional  beauty, 

Couldn't  he  make  a  dancin'-tune  skip  aroun^  an'  do  its  duty? 

Wasn't  his  head  chock  full  o'  notes!  yellin',  moanin',  cooin',  glancin' — 

Ef  he'd  tried,  I  almost  think  he  could  set  a  graveyard  dancin'! 

Broke  one  string,  the  first  dumbed  thing;  but  he  rose  to  that  superior 

In  a  way  that  made  our  cat  tremble  fur  its  own  interior! 

What  a  voice  he  hed,  besides! — half  a  roar  an'  half  a  ripple: 

He  could  "call  off"  in  a  way  that  would  give  legs  to  a  cripple. 


The   Thanksgiving  Dance. 


41 


Not  a  dance  he  undertook,  but  he  made  us  all  go  through  it; 

Folks  went  trippin'  'mongst  the  riggers  that  1  never  thought  could  do  it. 

People  that  was  sick  abed  when  they  got  the  invertation, 

Now  was  with  us  in  the  shindig,  dancin',  too,  like  all  creation; 

Skippin'  o'er  the  hard-wood  floor — all  its  cracks  an'  j'ints  an'  hummocks — 

Givin'  thanks  there  with  their  heels,  ef  they  couldn't  with  their  stomachs. 

Kecollect  old  Nathan  Davis? — how  he  made  the  windows  rattle! 

Couldn't  hev  caused  a  bigger  racket  ef  he'd  brought  a  drove  of  cattle! 

Eecollect  Cordelia  Close,  of  the  spinsterette  pursuasion? 

Little  thing  hadn't  danced  before,  maybe,  sence  the  Dutch  invasion. 

Kecollect  Lycurgus  Straw? — local  preacher,  full  o'  feelin': 

Looked  on:  said  he  didn't  think  it  was  half  as  bad  as  stealin'; 

Kecollect  old  Gran'pa  Purdy? — worked  up  by  that  fiddle's  mockin's, 

He  jest  jerked  off  both  his  boots,  prancin'  roun'  in  white-toed  stocking; 

Oh,  I  tell  ye  it  was  fine!  full  o'  music  joy  an'  clatter! 

Not  a  morsel  fur  to  eat,  but  a  pile  to  make  us  fatter! 

An'  when  everything  was  gorgeous,  an'  our  blood  was  still  a-heatin', 
Dad  an'  Mam  come  happenin'  in — unexpected  home  from  meetin'. 


42  Songs  of  Months  and  Days. 


EAGLE  AND  TURKEY. 

The  eagle  o'er  us  sweeping 
Hath,  empires  in  his  keeping; 
From  mountain-summits  leaping, 

He  swims  the  liquid  sky; 
Great  cannon  hoarsely  falling 
On  timid  ears  appalling, 
To  him  are  brothers  calling, 

The  Fourth  day  of  July. 

But  when  the  Autumns  gather 
Their  leaden-golden  weather, 
And  camp  in  woods  and  heather 

'Mid  waves  of  gleaming  fire, 
When  mortals  are  redressing 
Past  errors  by  confessing 
A  year's  undoubted  blessing — 

The  eagle  must  retire. 

As  round  the  table  teeming 
With  goodly  victual  steaming, 
Each  fragrant  dish  is  seeming 

To  thank  Heaven  all  it  can, 
When  every  plate  is  pensioned 
With  morsels  prayer-intentioned, 
No  eagle  e'er  is  mentioned: 

The  turkey  leads  the  van. 


Uncle  Jakes   Thanksgiving.  43 


UNCLE   JAKE'S   THANKSGIVING. 

There's  a  lot  o'  folks  they  say  that's  a-holdin'  up  today 
Several  mercies  that  they  only  just  have  found; 

There's  a  river  full  o'  thanks  that's  a-bustin'  of  its  banks, 
An'  a-inundatin'  all  de  country  round. 

Bar's  a  lot  o'  folks  I  fear  that's  attracted  by  de  cheer, 
An'  is  thankin'  like  dey  never  thanked  before; 

An'  there's  lots  o'  fervent  pra'rs  like  de  tickets  on  de  cars — 
Good  fur  dis  yer  one  day  only  an'  no  more. 

I'm  a-going  to  make  dis  day  sort  of  up  an'  cl'r  de  way 

Fur  a  reg-lar  thank-procession  thro'  de  yeah; 
So  I'll  sort  o'  set  me  down  'fore  de  odder  folks  is  roun', 

An'll  undertake  to  view  my  mercies  cleah. 

Here's  dis  rheumatis':  I  s'pose  it's  a  blessin'  in  repose, 

Fur  I'm  happy  when  it  isn't  to  be  foun'; 
Must've  ketched  it  from  de  moon  in  de  season  of  de  coon; 

An'  I  s'pose  o'  co'se  de  Lawd  was  watchin'  roun'. 

Here's  dis  bullet  in  my  knee;  'twan't  by  no  request  o'  me, 
But  it  cured  me  from  de  nights  I  used  to  roam; 

An'  I  think  in  that  affair,  dat  de  Lawd  was  surely  there; 
Fur  I'm  raisin'  all  my  chickens  now  to  home. 

My  ten  chiPren  I  suppose  good  as  offspring  gen'lly  goes, 

But  deir  everlastin'  tricks  won't  let  me  be; 
All  de  fool'ry  I  concealed,  in  deir  actions  is  revealed; 

An'  dat's  whar  de  Lawd  has  got  a  joke  on  me. 


44  Songs  of  Months  and  Days. 

Dese  yer  enemies  I've  got,  can  be  'stroyed  as  well  as  not, 

Ef  I  only  count  de  whole  mankin'  as  fren's; 
An'  de  stabs  an'  jabs  dey  gib  underneath,  de  lower  rib, 

Is  chastisin'  dat  de  Lawd  A'mighty  sen's. 

When  dere  comes  a  melon-famine,  an'  de  vines  is  all  a-shammin', 

It's  intended  I  wid  gratitude  should  think 
Of  de  seasons  furder  back,  when  dere  wasn't  any  lack 

Of  dat  hebbenly  fruit  containin'  food  an'  drink. 

An'  de  dollars  I  done  see  dat  didn't  even  call  on  me, 
An'  de  less  or  greater  loved  ones  dat  I've  lost — 

All  de  t'ings  dat  Fm  bereft,  makes  me  thankful  fur  what's  left; 
An'  is  worth  to  soul  an'  body  all  dey  cost. 

An'  a  million  joys  dar  are,  from  de  daisy  to  de  star, 
Dat  is  worth  de  time  of  countin'  o'er  and  o'er; 

But  of  all  thank-timber  yet,  it's  the  things  I  didn't  get, 
That  I  think  I  hev  to  be  de  thankfulest  for. 


SONGS  OF  HOME  LIFE. 


WORbS  THAT  WE  COULD  UNDEESTAN'. 

Johnny  left  the  farm,  an'  studied 

In  the  college,  quite  awhile; 
He  was  sort  of  student-blooded, 

With  a  dash  o'  city-style; 
So  we  talked  it — me  an'  Father — 
An'  concluded  we  would  rather 

Toil  an  extra  hour  or  two 
Every  day,  than  let  work  gall  him 

That  he  wasn't  built  to  do; 
An'  where  Nature  seemed  to  call  him, 

He  should  go;  an'  if  a  dollar 
Now  an'  then,  the  Fates  would  bribe 

To  produce  a  first-class  scholar 
For  to  tassel  off  our  tribe, 
We  would  take  it  out  in  knowledge; 
So  we  put  the  boy  to  college. 

Johnny  lots  o'  letters  sent  us, 

Full  o'  things  we  knowed  before, 
An'  a  heap  o'  trouble  lent  us 

Studyin'  of  'em  o'er  and  o'er; 
While  his  keep  we  kep'  on  earnin' 

From  our  hard  an'  sulky  Ian', 
We  was  'fraid  he  couldn't  be  learnin' 

Much,  if  writin'  with  school-han' 
Words  that  we  could  understan'; 
An'  we  worried  much  about  him 
An'  begun  to  fear  an'  doubt  him. 

An'  I  says  one  day  to  Father, 
"I'm  a-goin'  to  put  a  stay 


48  Songs  of  Home  Life. 

To  this  everlastin'  bother: 

I  shall  start  for  John  today." 
An'  Pa  said,  with  mannish  guesses 

'Bout  a  woman's  clothin'-life, 
"You  are  ruther  short  o'  dresses 

Fur  to  go  to  college,  Wife. 
Not  in  length  of  any  of  'em, 

But  in  number's,  what  I  mean." 
An'  I  says,  "I'll  rise  above  'em, 

For  I'm  al'ays  neat  an'  clean; 

An'  I'll  wear  my  bombazine, 
With  substantial  hooks  an'  eyes, 
An'  the  sleeves  a  Christian  size." 
An'  I  done  jus'  as  I  say, 
An'  went  off  that  very  day. 

Well,  I  got  there  one  fine  mornin', 
An'  without  a  second's  warnin', 
I,  his  mother,  an'  no  other — 
His  own  true,  hard-workin'  mother, 
Who  had  teached  the  boy  to  walk, 
An'  not  only  that,  but  talk: 
(An'  I  said,  "His  eddication 

With  them  things  left  out,  I  guess, 
Would  hev  been  a  tribilation, 

Nothin'  more  an'  somethin'  less") 
I  went  hither,  there,  an'  yon, 
Jest  inquirin'  after  John. 

An'  I  traced  him  here  an'  there, 

An'  kep'  jest  so  fur  behind  him, 
But  somehow,  I  do  declare, 

I  could  never  seem  to  find  him! 
An'  I  thought,  in  great  distress, 
"He  is  dodgin'  me,  I  guess: 
Me,  an'  my  old  faded  dress!" 

Then  my  heart  made  sad  complaint, 
An'  I  felt  homesick  an'  faint; 
My  appearance  I  compared 


Words  tkat   We  could  Understan 

With  some  ladies'  that  was  passin', 
An'  reflected,  while  they  stared 

At  my  scrimped-up  way  of  dressin'; 
An'  how  my  old  bombazine 
Looked  so  shabby-like  an'  mean. 
An'  I  thought,  with  eyes  tear-dim, 

"Our  sweet  boy,  that  used  to  love  us, 
We  have  eddicated  him —  % 

Eddicated  him  above  us!" 

An'  while  these  thoughts  I  was  summin', 

An'  was  kind  o'  prone  to  fear  him, 
I  looked  up  an'  saw  John  comin' 

With  a  lady  some'at  near  him! 
Then  I  said,  "It  shaVt  be  said 

That  I  ever  yet  have  stood 
With  a  downcast,  shamefaced  head, 

Front  of  my  own  flesh  an'  blood; 
An'  I  teached  the  boy  to  talk, 
An'  not  only  that,  but  walk." 
An'  I  says,  "His  conversation 

With  that  purty  gal  I  see, 
Wouldn't  hev  proved  much  consolation 

Ef  it  hadn't  hev  been  fur  me." 
So  I  hurried  proudly  on, 

With  such  courage  as  I'd  got, 
In  a  sort  o'  way  that  John 

He  c'u'd  notice  me  or  not. 

When  jest  opposite,  he  turned, 

An'  he  see  my  faded  dress — 
An'  his  fair  face  quickly  burned, 

With  some  small  ashamedness; 
An'  no  wonder;  for,  you  see, 
There  was  her,  trim  as  could  be, 

Dressed  like  pictur's  on  the  wall, 

An'  life's  sweetness  through  it  all — 
For  a  han'some  gal  was  she! 
An'  just  six  foot  off  was  me — 
Wrinkled — old — though  spick  an'  clean, 
4 


50  Songs  of  Home  Life. 

Dressed  in  my  ol'  bombazine, 
An'  with  ban's  as  hard  as  leather 
(Me  an'  Dad  oft  worked  together). 
An'  my  throat  was  in  one  lump, 
An'  my  heart  it  took  a  jump; 
An'  I  bed  all  I  could  do 
Holdin'  back  my  feelin's,  too; 
For  ol'  times  I  couldn't  forget; 
An'  I  loved  him — loved  him  yet- 
Just  as  well,  it  should  be  stated, 
As  'fore  he  was  eddicated; 


"But",  I  says,  "I'll  walk  right  on: 
I  will  curb  my  feelin's  so 
His  nice  gal  shall  never  know 

That  I'm  any  kin  to  John." 

Walk  right  on! — it  couldn't  be  done, 

With  John's  heart  there  in  the  road 

Bigger  than  a  barley-load! 
He  went  fur  me  on  a  run, 
An'  he  kissed  my  wrinkled  cheek, 

An'  my  hands  so  hard  an'  rough, 
An'  wouldn't  sca'cely  let  me  speak, 

Though  I  tried  to,  times  enough; 
An'  half  led,  half  carried  me 
As  if  proud  as  proud  could  be, 
Up  to  where  she  stood;  an'  said, 
"It's  my  mother";  an'  her  head 
Bent  as  wilier  trees  will  do, 
An'  she  hugged  an'  kissed  me,  too; 
An'  I  kissed  my  gal  an'  boy, 
An'  was  half  afaint  with  joy. 

Then  I  wrote  that  night  to  Dad, 
"Don't  you  worry  'bout  the  lad, 
'Cause  he  wrote  in  his  school-ban' 
Words  that  we  could  understan'." 


As  well  as  I.  51 


AS  WELL  AS  I. 
The  Daughter  of  the  House  Soliloquizes. 

No,  my  mother  does  not  look  as  well  as  I, 
For  the  days  of  her  appearing  well,  are  by: 
She  can  sew  a  bit,  and  sweep  a  bit,  and  fry — 

But  she  doesn't  look  well 

When  I  entertain  a  swell, 
In  the  parlor,  and  she  happens  to  be  nigh. 

She  is  good  to  meet  alone 

When  the  brilliant  ones  are  flown; 

When  the  world  seems  all  in  vain, 

She  can  soothe  away  the  pain; 
She  can  kiss  away  the  tear-drops  if  I  cry; 

But  reluctantly  I  state 

She  is  not  quite  up-to-date, 
And  is  apt  to  set  the  functions  all  awry. 

No,  my  mother  cannot  talk  as  well  as  I, 
And  we  often  wish  she  wouldn't  even  try. 
She  can  give  the  smartest  joker  his  reply, 

But  her  nouns  and  verbs,  you  see, 

Do  not  always  quite  agree; 
And  my  guests  are  prone  to  laugh  upon  the  sly. 

When  we  sit  and  talk  alone, 

With  her  arms  around  me  thrown, 

And  my  head  upon  her  breast 

In  delicious  home-made  rest, 
No  raconteur  can  a  moment  with  her  vie; 

But  she  does  not  always  know 

When  her  words  should  stop  or  flow; 
And  her  stories  of  the  past  are  rather  dry. 


52  Songs  of  Home  Life. 

No,  my  mother  cannot  sing  as  well  as  I: 
She  is  apt  to  pitch  it  low  or  hold  it  high; 
And  her  methods  all  my  master's  rules  defy. 

But  the  time  seems  very  near 

When  she  carolled  "Hush,  my  dear", 
As  in  fancy  'mid  the  cradle-depths  I  lie. 

And  I  fell  asleep  ere  long, 

Dreaming  angels  sang  the  song; 

And  the  loveliest  one  was  she, 

Of  the  hosts  that  guarded  me; 
And  she  often  talks  about  it,  with  a  sigh. 

But  those  baby-days  are  fled: 

There  are  other  songs  ahead, 
And  I  have  to  catch  the  chances  as  they  fly. 

No,  my  mother  is  not  near  so  strong  as  I: 

She  is  nervous;  and  I  often  can  espy 

That  her  tears  have  not  sufficient  time  to  dry. 

She  has  griefs  I  do  not  know, 

As  the  years  relentless  flow, 
And  as  one  by  one  her  visions  fade  and  die. 

There  is  sadness  in  her  heart, 

That  she  keeps  from  me  apart; 

There  are  sorrows,  many  a  while, 

That  she  smothers  with  a  smile; 
When   she   weeps,   I   cannot   always   ask   her  why. 

And  I  fear — or  guess — or  know — 

I  myself  will  have  to  £0 
Through  the  same  forlorn  experience — by-and-by! 


Fixing  the  Clock*  53 


FIXING  THE  CLOCK. 

It's  jest  as  fawther  said  it  was — they's  some  thin'  here  that's  wrong; 
The  gran'ther-clock  is  ailin'  sir — we're  glad   you  come  along. 
It  stood  an'  sulked  a  week  or  two,  an'  wouldn't  tick  or  ring, 
Or  run  its  han's  aroun'  its  face,  or  do  a  blessed  thing. 

It's  old  enough  to  hev  a  rest,  as  people  say,  you  know; 
We  often  think  it  started  out  a  thousan'  year  ago. 
An'  Cousin  Pete,  who  sets  an'  tells  us  stories  in  the  dark, 
He  wonders  ef  it  give  the  time  for  Noarh  in  the  ark. 

We're  glad  it's  goin'  to  start  ag'in;  for  when  it  ain't  no  good, 
It  makes  a  sort  o'  friendly  fuss  all  through  the  neighborhood; 
The  folks  inquire  as  if  'twas  folks,  an?  stop  us  on  the  way, 
An'  anxiously  they  ask  us  how  the  oP  clock  is  today. 

They's  lots  o'  time-machines  aroun'  that  have  a  deal  o'  lack, 

An'  need  a  steady  gran'ther-clock  to  keep  'em  on  the  track; 

I've  seen  folks  stan'  out  in  the  road,  an7  wait  an'  listen  like, 

To  set  their  watch  by  this  'ere  clock,  as  soon's  they  heard  it  strike. 

We're  glad  it  stopped,  though;  so's  that  you  could  take  it  all  apart, 
An'  we  could  see  its  thinkin'  works,  an'  where  it  kep'  its  heart; 
An'  why,  before  it's  goin'  to  strike,  four  minutes  an'  a  half, 
It  sort  o'  up  an'  chuckles,  like,  as  ef  it  meant  to  laugh; 

An'  how  it  keeps  the  memory  good,  although  it's  got  so  old, 
An'  how  it  knows  the  moon  is  new,  or  full  o'  yeller  gold; 
An'  tells  it  with  its  picture-moons,  so's  we  can  know  it  nigh 
As  well  as  ef  we  went  out-door  an'  found  it  in  the  sky; 


54  Songs  of  Home  Life. 

An'  ef  it  ever  has  the  blues,  alone  there  night  an'  day, 

An'  how  it  come  to  know  the  facts,  when  baby  went  away; 

For  half  the  night  there  through  the  dark  a-cryin'  in  our  bed, 

We  heard  it  talkin'  to  itself— "She's  dead— she's  dead— she's  dead!" 

An'  then  I  guess  I  went  to  sleep,  an'  dreamed  a  little  while, 
An'  thought  I  saw  her  in  the  clouds,  an'  knew  her  by  her  smile; 
An'  when  the  sunrise  woke  me  up — 'twas  maybe  six  or  seven — 
It  changed  its  mind,  an'  says  to  me,    "In   Heaven — in   Heaven — in 
Heaven!" 


The  Mocking-Bird.  55 


THE  MOCKING-BIRD. 
A  True  Story. 

Of  manner  shy,  of  gleaming  eye, 

And  dainty  bill  and  feather, 
With  kindly  word,  a  mocking-bird 

Was  sent  from  balmy  weather; 
From  oaks  and  pines,  and  em'rald  vines* 

And  flowerets  gently  clinging; 
From  grassy  leas  of  orange-trees, 

And  comrades  near  him  singing. 

The  chill  and  rime  of  Northern  clime 

Hung  round  him  like  a  tether; 
He  beat  and  pressed  his  wiry  nest, 

And  yearned  for  happy  weather. 
The  weeks  were  long,  he  gave  no  song, 

However  wiled  or  bidden; 
Each  jewelled  note  within  his  throat 

Was  but  a  treasure  hidden. 

Of  orange-blooms  and  rare  perfumes 
And  buds  and  leaves  together, 

With  kind  intent,  a  box  was  sent 
From  out  the  South-land  weather: 


56  Songs  of  Home  Life. 

'Gainst  looks  of  rage,  into  the  cage 
A  gentle  finger  pressed  them: 

By  rapture  stirred,  the  mocking-bird 
With  cries  of  joy  caressed  them! 

Then  came  his  song,  as  sweet  and  strong 

As  on  his  native  heather: 
He  trilled  with  ease  the  psalms  and  glees 

That  grace  the  loveliest  weather. 
None  may  indite  what  message  bright 

Those  perfumed  leaves  were  bringing: 
We  only  say,  that  since  that  day, 

Our  exile-bird  is  singing! 


Up  in  the  Loft.  57 


UP  IN  THE  LOFT. 

Up  in  the  loft,  'mid  scented  clover, 
Five  of  us  perched  and  talked  it  over; 
Talked  of  the  years  that  lagged  and  waited, 
Full  of  the  gold  of  Fancy  freighted; 
Full  of  the  joys  that  Hope  was  living — 
Joys  that  the  world  is  slow  in  giving; 
Full  of  the  honors  Youth  can  spread 

Over  its  own  fair  head. 
Tom  was  a  colonel  brave  and  comely, 
There  in  his  worsted  garments  homely; 
Jack  was  a  doctor  all  were  seeking, 
Jem  was  a  lawyer,  glib  of  speaking; 
Fred  as  a  merchant  bought  and  sold 
Half  of  the  world  for  leaves  of  gold; 
And  I  was  sailing  the  wide  seas  over, 
There  in  my  ship  of  scented  clover. 

Up  in  the  tomb  of  the  blossoms  sitting, 
Ghosts  of  the  past  were  round  us  flitting; 
Forms  that  magical  deeds  had  done, 

Came  to  us  one  by  one; 
All  of  the  tales  we  had  heard  and  read, 

Now  were  sung  or  said. 
Tom  of  the  knights  with  helmets  glancing, 
Under  their  snow-white  plumage  dancing; 
Jem  of  the  genii  weird  of  mission — 
Jack  of  the  sages'  cold  ambition: 
Fred  of  the  lamp  which,  dim  and  old 
Lighted  Aladdin  to  fame  and  gold; 


58  Songs  of  Home  Life. 

And  I  was  at  heart  a  Sindbad  rover,, 
Gathering  gems  in  a  vale  of  clover. 

Up  in  the  conch  of  the  grasses  lying, 
There  as  the  winds  outside  were  sighing, 
There  in  that  field  of  fragrant  clover, 
Under  the  barn-roof's  trusted  coyer, 
All  of  us  whispered  some  sweetheart-name 

Haply  no  two  the  same; 
All  of  us  murmured  secrets  there, 

Of  tiny  maidens  fair: 
In  that  chapel  of  scented  clover, 
Each  of  us  vowed  himself  a  lover. 
How  did  the  castles  we  were  building 
Fall  with  the  sunrise'  fragile  gilding! 
How  were  the  hopes  Desire  was  giving 
Crushed  in  the  wear  and  tear  of  living! 
How,  in  the  noontide's  steady  glare, 

Gone  are  our  maidens  fair! 
Tom's,  in  a  few  short  years,  sedately 
Married  a  judge,  severe  and  stately: 
Jack  had  the  "mitten"  prematurely, 
Jem  has  a  wife  he  loves  unsurely; 
Fred  has  one  who,  dainty  elf, 
Married  his  money,  and  not  himself; 
And  she  whose  image  thoughtfully  gay 
Lit  brightest  the  loft  on  that  winter  day, 
Sleeps,  when  the  summer  winds  fly  over, 
Solemnly  'neath  the  blossomed  clover. 


To  a  Dead  Bird.  59 


TO  A  DEAD  BIRD. 

Poor,  perished  thing, 

How  helpless,  now,  thy  angel-painted  wing; 
How  tired  of  death  the  unaffected  grace 
That  lingers  on  thy  little  feathered  face! 
Could  any  gem  that  mortals  choose  to  prize 
Assume  to  match  the  radiance  of  thine  eyes? 
Some  man  destroyed  what  ne'er  again  can  be, 

In  killing  thee. 

Say,  silent  thing: 

Hadst  thou  the  Heaven-invented  gift  to  sing? 
Couldst  chant  a  sonnet,  undefiled  by  art, 
And  thrill  and  win  the  chosen  of  thy  heart? 
Couldst  hush  the  silent  sobbing  of  the  air, 
With  strains  of  jewelled  laughter,  free  from  care? 
One  fancies  some  of  God's  unsullied  glee 

Went  back  with  thee. 

Didst  love  to  fling 

Thyself  upon  the  swelling  breast  of  Spring? 
Didst  joy  to  thread  the  airy  lanes  with  ease, 
Or  find  a  swaying  throne  among  the  trees? 
With  dainty  prow  and  firmly  planted  sail, 
Couldst  ride  along  the  billows  of  the  gale? 
Heaven  meant  the  earth  and  azure  safe  and  free, 

For  such  as  thee. 

But,  plumaged  thing, 
If  deathly  splendor  can  a  comfort  bring, 
If  but  thy  body,  from  its  sweet  control, 
May  send  a  message  to  the  restless  soul, 
Rejoice:  it  hath  a  more  than  royal  bed: 
Thy  mausoleum  is  my  lady's  head. 
And  I  can  fancy  many  swains  I  see, 

That  envy  thee! 


60  Songs  of  Home  Life. 


THE  TWO  BOYS. 

The  "Tot"  Discourses. 

Of  all  the  peoples  in  this  town, 

So  far  as  I  can  see, 
The  best  two  fellows,  up  and  down, 

Is  Uncle  Joe  an'  me. 
We  found  each  other  long  ago— 
How  much  it  is  I  can't  quite  know— 
I  guess  a  thousan'  years  or  so — 

An'  never  didn't  agree. 

We   know   where    all    the   bluejays    nest, 

Does  Uncle  Joe  an'  me, 
An'  when  the  robins  sings  the  best, 

An'  where  the  squirrels  be; 
An'  when  the  rabbits  romp  an'  play, 
An'  where  the  biggest  woodchucks  stay, 
An'  where  the  owl  sleeps  every  day, 

An'  where  the  thrushes  be. 

When  we  drive  out  he  lets  me  drive, 

An'  then  we  both  agree 
There  ain't  two  bigger  sports  alive, 

Than  Uncle  Joe  an'  me. 
He  says  he'd  just  as  lives  as  not 
Lend  me  the  fastest  horse  he's  got, 
He  wouldn't  let  no  other  "tot" 

Take  hold  the  reins,  you  see! 

We  know  the  biggest  stories,  too, 
Does  Uncle  Joe  an'  me, 


The  Two  Boys. 

An'  some  of  'em  is  partly  true, 

An'  some  is  goin'  to  be; 
'Bout  Injuns,  full  of  scalps  an'  noise, 
An'  giants  that  had  trees  fur  toys, 
An'  how  things  was  when  we  was  boys — 

Some  years  ago,  you  see! 

My  mommer  says  we've  got  to  die, 

An'  angels  live  an'  be, 
An'  go  an'  dwell  up  in  the  sky, 

From  sin  forever  free; 
But  that's  what  I  don't  mean  to  do, 
Till  Uncle  Joe  gets  started,  too: 
For  Heaven  would  be  most  awful  blue, 

'Thout  Uncle  Joe  an'  me! 


61 


62  Songs  of  Home  Life. 


BLOWING  THE  FEATHEE. 

Blowing  the  feather,  ten  together 
Sat  in  the  lamplight's  honest  glare; 

While  outside,  the  lips  of  the  weather 
Hurried  the  leaflets  here  and  there. 

Blowing  the  feather,  ten  together 

Laughed  in  the  lamplight's  cozy  glare. 

At  right  of  the  feather,  two  together 

Merrily  sat — a  rival  pair: 
Each  of  the  swains  was  wondering  whether 

That  sweet  maiden  over  there — 

She  with  the  skeins  of  golden  hair 
Holding  those  two  with  Love's  strong  tether — 

Had  for  either  a  tender  care. 

Left  of  the  feather,  two  together 

Laughingly  sat — another  pair; 

One  was  a  man  of  quiet  air, 

And  one  was  this  maid  with  the  golden  hair. 
He  might  have  been — but  was  not — her  brother; 
They  never  deigned  to  glance  at  each  other — 

Or  had  for  a  neighbor  a  word  to  spare; 
Watching,  with  laughs  they  tried  to  smother, 

The  two  fierce  rivals  over  there. 

"Now,"  said  the  maid,  "who  gets  the  feather, 
Over  his  heart  this  rose  may  wear!" 
Then  there  was  grasping  here  and  there — 

Then  there  were  breaths  that  rushed  together; 
All  were  striving,  except  the  pair 
Sitting  so  calmly,  chair  by  chair, 


Blowing  the  Feather.  63 

Silently  watching  the  dancing  feather: 
The  man  with  the  cool  and  dreamy  air, 
And  the  laughing  maid  with  golden  hair. 

Front  of  the  rivals  stopped  the  feather; 
One  was  grasping,  with  eager  air, 

And  one  was  flushed  as  the  frosted  heather, 
Blowing  the  white-winged  omen  where 
His  rival  should  miss  it,  in  despair; 

But  straight  it  flew,  o'er  the  surface  wide, 

To  the  man  who  sat  at  the  farther  side- 
He  of  the  quiet  and  dreamy  air: 

"All  things  come,  if  we  do  but  wait", 

He  said  to  the  maiden,  calm  as  Fate, 
And  offered  his  heart  to  the  fingers  fair. 

The  maiden  turned  as  white  as  the  feather, 
Then  red  as  the  rose,  as  she  pinned  it  there. 


64  Songs  of  Home  Life. 


HARVESTS. 

Harvests  of  old,  through,  gold-mines  of  the  peasant, 

Delved  thy  forged  sickle — a  silvery  crescent; 

In  the  cool  breeze  or  the  thick  sultry  weather, 

Toiled  the  strong  lad  and  the  maiden  together. 

Winsomeness  into  the  Eden-curse  bringing, 

Oft  did  they  charm  sober  toil  with  their  singing; 

Then  when  the  harvest-moon  rose  in  its  splendor, 

Homeward  they  fared,   oft  with  words   that  were  tender, 

Or  through  the  silver-strown  song's  gallant  measures, 

Rumbled  the  wains  with  their  rish  golden  treasures. 

Harvests  less  old! — still  the  memory  lingers 
Of  thy  broad  blade  with  its  tapering  fingers; 
How  as  it  swung  came  the  tremulous  sighing 
Of  the  trim  grain-plants  so  suddenly  dying! 
How,  a  rude  music  that  baffles  forgetting 
Rang  out  the  song  of  the  scythe  in  its  whetting; 
How  the  glum  toiler  or  jest-loving  fellow 
Lunched  in  a  shade  of  their  wide  camps  of  yellow, 
Gossiping  e'en  as  the  idlest  of  woman — 
Showing  that  both  of  the  sexes  are  human! 

Harvests  today!  through  the  grain-forest  sweeping 
Comes  like  a  cyclone  an  engine  of  reaping. 
Reaper,  and  gleaner,  and  old-fashioned  peasant 
Flee  from  this  monster — grim  child  of  the  present; 
Sickle  and  scythe,  and  the  flail  for  the  threshing 
Fused  into  wheels,  through  the  meadows  go  crashing. 
All  of  the  harvest-songs  vanish  before  us, 
Blended  and  lost  in  this  grand  metal  chorus. 
Such  are  the  harvests  these  rushing  days  fling  us: 
What  will  the  twentieth  century  bring  us? 


Stars  of  the  Grasses.  65 


STARS   OF    THE    GRASSES. 


Fireflies!  fireflies!  fragments  of  light, 
Leading  through  darkness  the  careless 
Tremulous  stars  of  the  lower  night; 


Living  lamps  in  the  green  below, 
Clinging  and  swinging  to  and  fro, 
Where  the  forests  of  grasses  grow; 

How  can  we  say  but  yonder  star, 

Glittering  in  the  blue  afar, 

May  be  conscious,  as  insects  are? 

Greater  and  stronger,  but  still  as  you, 
Oft  it  will  vanish  from  our  view, 
Then  will  glitter,  as  fired  anew. 

E'en  as  an  insect,  bye  and  bye 
Yonder  star  in  its  turn  must  die, 
Making  a  death-bed  of  the  sky. 


66  Songs  of  Home  Life. 


GOOD-BYE,  OLD  HORSE. 

The  pleasant  days  have  gone  their  ways,  the  world  is  getting  old, 

The  wind  is  in  the  north  again — the  air  is  damp  and  cold; 

They  turn  their  heads  and  laugh  at  us — those  days  we  used  to  win — 

And  Fortune  when  we  ask  for  her,  sends  word  she  isn't  in. 

The  earth  is  growing  bare  and  bleak,  and  clouds  are  in  the  sky; 

So  I  must  go  and  find  the  sun:  my  dear  old  horse,  good-bye! 

You  had  a  speed  and  I  a  rein  we  both  knew  how  to  trust: 

Oh  'twas  a  mighty  lively  rig  that  gave  us  any  dust! 

We  made  a  race-track  of  the  road  whene'er  we  had  a  mind, 

And  you  had  not  the  faculty  of  following  on  behind. 

But  luck  went  off  another  way,  and  never  told  us  why: — 

And  so  I've  got  to  walk  a  bit: — my  dear  old  horse,  good-bye! 

One  night  we  met  a  robber  band  with  whom  we  couldn't  agree — 

And  one  caressed  you  by  the  bit,  and  one  took  charge  of  me. 

I  knocked  mine  over  with  the  whip,  and  yours  you  trampled  down, 

And  showed  the  rest  a  set  of  heels  unrivalled  in  the  town. 

I  said,  "Old  man,  we'll  never  part  till  one  of  us  shall  die": 

But  Euin  sneers  at  hearts  and  hands — good-bye,  old  friend,  good-bye! 

One  merry  eve  when  ruby  wine  had  turned  my  brain  to  lead, 
Beside  the  road  when  half-way  home  I  stopped  and  went  to  bed. 
But  I  was  watched  by  chivalry  all  through  my  night's  disgrace: 
For  when  I  woke,  your  warm  sweet  nose  was  cuddling  round  my  face. 
You  vowed  no  harm  should  come  to  me,  with  you  a-lingering  nigh: 
I'd  stay  by  you  now  if  I  could — good-bye,  old  horse,  good-bye! 

I  think  and  hope  I'm  leaving  you  in  good  and  friendly  handfe — 
I  feel  as  if  you'd  think  of  me  in  distant  seas  and  lands; 
And  if  my  fate  turns  round  again,  and  Effort  serves  me  true, 
There'll  come  first  thing  across  the  space,  a  telegram  for  you. 
I  hope  that  yet  some  happy  days  we'll  capture,  you  and  I, 
And  golden  stables  shall  be  yours,  in  Heaven,  bye  and  bye! 


SONGS  OF  THE  RIVERS. 


TO  GO  A-SWIMMING. 

There's  a  red-letter  page  that  is  brighter  for  its  age, 

And  the  finger-marks  of  Time  are  never  dimming; 
It  has  very  much  to  say  of  a  hot  summer  day, 

When  we  fellows  ran  away,  to  go  a-swimming. 
Creeping  through  lengthy  grass  while  dancing  shadows  pass, 
Threading  deep  haunted  woods  where  the  squirrel  stows  his  goods, 
And  birds  nested  high  teach  their  little  ones  to  fly, 
Where  the  grape-cluster  shines  in  a  wilderness  of  vines, 
Where  are  mossy  pillows  green  not  a  slumberer  hath  seen, 
And  the  red  flowers  grow  in  a  blossom-drift  of  snow; — 
It  was  maybe  twice  as  gay  that  we  felt  a  bit  astray, 
When  we  fellows  ran  away,  to  go  a-swimming! 

And  the  river  and  the  pool  were  so  heaven-like  and  cool, 

With  fresh  baby-breezes  over-skimming; 
Everything  well  contrived  for  a  pleasure  short-lived, 

When  we  runaways  arrived  to  go  a-swimming! 
Now  all  ready — now  a  plunge!  and  our  bodies,  like  a  sponge 
That  unduly  dry  has  been,  seem  to  drink  the  water  in; 
We  are  groping  in  the  caves  of  the  cold  silent  waves, 
We  are  climbing  to  the  air,  flinging  torrents   from  our  hair, 
And  we  struggle  to  and  fro  through  the  ripples'  gentle  flow, 
And  we  duels  gaily  fight  with  the  plashing  waters  bright, 
On  each  other,  through  the  fray,  flinging  barrels -full  of  spray; 

Oh!  the  mad  and  merry  day  we  went  a-swimming! 

Now  the  moral  of  this  rhyme  is  for  youth's  careless  time, 

Full  of  good,  sober  counsel  it  is  brimming: 
In  your  labor  or  your  play,  your  superiors  obey; 

Don't  you  ever  run  away  to  go  a-swimming. 


70  Songs  of  the  Rivers. 

Though  the  flower-jewels  shine  with  a  radiance  divine, 
And  the  daisy-blossoms  creep  in  the  meadows  half  asleep, 
And  the  clouds  are  like  a  high  floating  castle  in  the  sky, 
And  the  forest-branches  dumb  wink  and  beckon  you  to  come, 
And  a  shady  nook  you  know  where  the  dainty  billows  flow, 
Whose  delicious  quiet  charms  would  fold  you  in  their  arms — 
Be  obedient  while  you  may;  on  the  shore  of  duty  stay; 
Don't  you  ever  run  away  to  go  a-swimming! 


"   WHERE    WE    WATERED    THE    TEAM 


Where    We    Watered  the   Team.  71 


WHERE  WE  WATERED  THE  TEAM. 

The  sky  was  a  blaze;  but  the  forest's  green  haze 
Made  our  journey  a  dream; 

And  torn  shadows  fell  like  the  fringe  of  a  spell- 
Where  we  watered  the  team. 

The  flower-bushes  stood — radiant  belles  of  the  wood — 
In  their  jewels  around; 

A  grass-forest  grew  and  incumbered  our  view 
Of  the  hills  of  the  ground. 

Sweet  rivulets  pressed  from  a  mountain's  high  crest, 

Like  arrows  agleam; 
Flowed  in  beauty  and  mirth  the  white  blood  of  the  earth, 

Where  we  watered  the  team. 
It  daintily  flung,  silent  shadows  among, 

Bright  jewels  of  sound; 
Thus  crooning  a  free  merry  song  of  the  sea — 

Whence  it  came — where  'twas  bound. 

There  was  music  to  spare  in  the  leaf-scented  air, 

Where  we  watered  the  team; 
Chanted  robin  and  thrush,  in  the  half-sacred  hush, 

Their  melodious  theme. 
And  the  clear  water  sung,  to  the  heart  as  it  clung 

Of  a  tree  that  was  prone; 
And  the  horses'  soft  lips  in  sweet  tremulous  sips 

Had  a  chant  of  their  own. 

Mid  the  rest-giving  din,  a  bright  chalice  of  tin 

Threw  its  welcoming  beam; 
And  we  drank  to  the  health  of  this  fragment  of  wealth, 

When  we'd  watered  the  team. 
We  were  wondering  much,  as  the  wave's  cooling  touch 

Through  our  beings  was  strown, 
If  it  were  not  a  taste  of  the  stream  that  John  traced 

To  the  depths  of  the  throne. 


72  Songs  of  the  Rivers. 


CHANT   OF   THE   ST.   LAWKENCE. 

I  am  inarching  to  the  sea — 

To  my  king,  the  mighty  sea; 

In  his  tent  he  waits  for  me — 
In  his  tent,  with  walls  of  blue, 
Decked  with  flags  of  brightest  hue, 

In  his  starlit,  sunlit  tent, 

O'er  the  head  in  splendor  bent. 

I  have  messages  in  store, 

For  my  king,  the  mighty  sea: 

Great  Superior's  solemn  word, 

Huron's  answering  voice  is  heard. 
Erie's  shelving  walls  of  land, 

Clad  with  wealth  and  comfort  o'er; 

Stern  Niagara's  thunder-pour, 
Great  Ontario's  prosperous  strand 
Decked  with  city-pictures  grand — 
All  send  messages  by  me, 
To  their  king,  the  mighty  sea. 

All  my  treasures  I  must  leave — 
All  my  thousand  tree-fringed  isles, 
All  my  shore-hills  clad  in  smiles- 
All  the  shadows  that  they  weave, 

All  my  woods,  with  eyes  of  blue, 
All  the  cottages  of  white, 


Chant  of  the  St.  Lawrence.  73 

Bathed  in  dim  reflected  light; 

Would  that  I  might  take  them  too, 
Floating  eastward  down  with  me, 
For  an  offering  to  the  sea! 

Stately  ships  with  plumes  of  black, 
Follow  on  my  gleaming  track; 
Villages  with  sails  of  white. 
Decked  with  banners  brave  and  bright; 
Funeral-trains  of  forest-trees, 
Journey  with  me  to  the  seas — 
Travel  with  me  toward  the  main — 
March  amid  my  glittering  train. 

Down  the  rapid's  giddy  stair 

Eush  I  headlong  as  in  fear; 
Past  the  crags  that  linger  there — 

Past  th'  old  gray  rock's  constant  sneer, 
To  my  death-like,  deathless  fate, 
Where  my  lord  and  king  doth  wait. 
Panic-struck,  I  rush  and  rave, 
As  some  mortals  toward  the  grave, 
Rush  and  rave  and  hurry  on. 
With  my  task  no  nearer  won. 
But  or  tranquil  or  in  haste, 
Frowning  wild  or  placid-faced, 
Eastward  still  my  soul  is  set: 
I  am  loyal,  even  yet! 

Times,  in  broad  blue  lakes  I  tarry, 

Kept  in  couches  soft  and  low; 
Lulled  to  sleep  as  if  by  fairy, 

Breeze-caresses  sweep  my  brow. 
Sun-caresses  thrill  my  soul, 
Shadow-hands  my  ways  control; 
In  the  night's  unlaughing  glee, 
Stars  come  out  and  smile  at  me; 
Zephyrs  from  the  wooded  west, 
Pause  awhile,  with  me  to  rest. 
"Here",  I  plead,  "that  I  might  stay 
Many  a  night  and  many  a  day!" 


74  Songs  of  the  Rivers. 

But  the  cry  is  "Onward!  On!" 

Never,  till  my  journey's  done, 

Can  I  tarry  well  or  long, 

Can  I  hush  my  marching-song. 

T  am  marching  to  the  sea — 

To  my  king,  the  mighty  sea; 

In  his  tent  he  waits  for  me, 

In  his  tent,  with  walls  of  "blue, 

Decked  with  flags  of  "brightest  hue 

In  his  starlit,  sunlit  tent, 

O'er  the  head  in  splendor  bent; 

On  his  calm,  majestic  breast, 

I  will  lie,  in  changeful  rest. 


The  Oarsman  s  Story. 


THE    OARSMAN'S    STORY. 

Hold  it  steady — don't  disturb  him— give  him  leeway  for  to  bite — 

Yes,  you've  got  him!  reel  him  careful,  for  he'll  make  a  lovely  fight! 

0  my  gracious!  now  you've  lost  him,  an'  he's  swiped  your  hook  an'  bait! 

Never  mind;  we'll  throw  another;  he  will  stan'  around  an'  wait. 

It's  a  reason  for  our  thinkin'  that  the  fish  are  slow  to  feel, 

That  their  appetites  '11  sharpen,  when  they  get  a  taste  o'  steel! 

Now,  that  sort  o'  half  reminds  me  of  a  bass  I  used  to  know, 
That  was  brains  from  prow  to  rudder,  if  a  fish  was  ever  so; 
For  he  stole  my  bait  off  handy  every  time  I  throwed  it  in, 
An'  then  flopped  up  from  the  water  with  a  cunnin'  sort  o'  grin; 
An'  I  fin'lly  named  him  Lawyer;  for  he'd  leave  the  hook  as  bare 
As  a  client  in  a  court-room  with  atturneys  fur  to  spare. 

An'  I  worked  him  late  an'  early,  an'  I  give  him  all  the  chance 

That  a  fish  was  ever  offered,  for  to  take  a  river-dance; 

But  he  made  the  same  division  an'  he  drawed  it  very  fine, 

Taking  fur  himself  the  minny— leavin'  me  the  hook  an'  line; 

An'  I  struggled  late  and  early  with  my  fish-poles  an'  my  reels, 

An'  my  time  an'  strength  an'  minnies— jest  to  give  that  fish  his  meals. 

An'  it  fin'lly  come  to  askin'  whether  natives  on  the  shore, 
That  had  paddled  through  the  river  for  a  forty  year  or  more, 
Should  be  beaten  every  summer  by  a  feller,  it  appears, 
Who  had  only  swum  the  water  for  a  half  a  dozen  years; 
An'  two  nights  I  laid  a-thinkin'  how  to  work  it  on  him  slick, 
An'  to  play  the  little  lawyer  one  good  everlastin'  trick. 

Then  I  built  a  queer   contraption  strung  with  new-invented   crooks — 

'Twas  a  circus  made  of  minnies  an'  a  side-show  full  o'  hooks; 

An'  I  don't  suppose  a  critter  could  go  near  it  head  or  tail, 

But  'twas  sure  to  catch  him  somehow,  an'  to  hold  him  like  a  nail; 


76  Songs  of  the  Rivers. 

An'  I  loudly  hollered  "Glory!"  an'  was  full  o'  joy  an'  pride, 
When  that  afternoon  I  snapped  him,  with  a  fish-hook  in  his  side! 

But  he  mildly  gazed  upon  me,  as  I  drawed  him  up  an'  near, 
With  a  look  of  disappointment  in  his  eye  so  black  an'  clear; 
An'  he  seemed  to  say  as  reg'lar  as  a  fish  with  words  to  spare, 
"Now,  you  know  to  make  it  decent  you  are  bound  to  catch  me  fair! 
You  an'  I  has  been  a-strivin'  at  a  scientific  game, 
An?  to  treat  me  foul  an'  sneaky  is  an  everlastin'  shame!" 

Then  I  ans'rs,  "Do  you  mean  it — do  you  think  it — straight  an'  true?" 

An'  he  winked  his  eye  like  sayin',  "Yes,  by  gracious,  sir,  I  do!" 

An'  I  picked  the  fish-hook  from  him,  usin'  most  unusual  care, 

An'  he  seemed  to  whisper,  "Thank  you;  but  it's  only  just  an'  fair!" 

An'  I  cut  off  my  new  fish-hooks — all  the  whole  infernal  set — 

An'  I  throwed  'em  in  the  river,  and  they're  in  the  river  yet. 

An'  I  launched  my  friend  a-floatin'  in  the  water  cold  an'  blue, 
An'  he  flopped  a  sort  of  "Thank  you",  as  he  disappeared  from  view; 
An'  he  never  stole  a  minny  nor  seemed  ready  to  commence, 
Though  he's  sort  o'  hung  around  me  in  the  water  ever  sence; 
An'  I  often  think  the  feller  means  to  pay  me  back  ag'in, 
An'  now  acts  as  my  atturney  fur  to  rope  the  others  in; 

But  he  started  me  a-thinkin':  When  you  fish,  as  fish  you  will, 

Be  a  sport  an'  not  a  butcher;  try  to  catch  an'  not  to  kill; 

Keep  enough  to  serve  your  eatin',  let  the  surplus  fellers  go; 

Send  the  small  ones  to  their  mothers — give  'em  time  to  fat  an  grow. 

An'  when  pullin'  in  the  fishes,  don't  be  slow  to  recollect 

To  secure  'em  in  a  manner  not  to  forfeit  their  respect. 


Out  of  Alexandr   Bay.  77 


OUT  OF  ALEXANDR'  BAY. 

A  January  Fish- Story. 

Poke  the  fire  a  little,  children,  till  the  log  begins  to  blaze, 

For  the  January  blizzards  hev  a  lot  of  frosty  ways; 

Bring  the  apples  an'  the  doughnuts,  an' — the  cider,  understand 

An'  be  mighty  sure  to  place  'em  some'at  handy  to  the  han'; 

An'  I'll  string  you  up  a  story  illustrative  of  the  way 

That  I  used  to  go  a-fishing  out  of  Alexandr'  Bay. 

First,  I  asked  the  wind  an'  current  fur  to  furnish  me  a  lift, 
Then  I  sailed  away  a  distance  in  my  double-p'inted  skift; 
An'  I  tuk  it  when  desirous  of  a  half  a  day  alone, 
Fur  the  biggest  of  the  fishes  doesn't  like  a  human  tone. 
An'  I  recollect  I  anchored  on  one  mornin'  bright  an'  clear, 
Where  the  basses  used  to  gather  in  that  season  of  the  year. 

When  I  found  'em,  they  was  huddled  near  a  little  islan'-beach, 
An'  they  measured — 0  my  gracious,  twice  as  much  as  I  ken  reach 
(An'  I  don't  believe  there's  any  hev  their  arms  in  a  posish 
Fur  to  stretch  'em  more  than  I  ken,  in  describin'  of  a  fish); 
An"5  the  mornin'  was  so  gentle,  an'  the  water  was  so  clear, 
I  cud  see  'em  smell  my  minny  jus'  as  if  they  all  was  here. 

But  a  lot  o'  rich  New  Yorkers  hed  their  summer  houses  nigh, 
An'  my  gracious  them  'er  fishes  was  a-eatin'  cake  an'  pie! 
Cooks  hed  throwed  it  in  the  river  when  it  cluttered  up  a  dish, 
An'  I  s'pose  it  tasted  better  to  the  fishes,  than  a  fish; 
An'  I  whispered  to  my  conscience,  "You  are  very  near  a  fool, 
Ef  you  waste  your  time  a-danglin'  overneath  a  boardin'-school!" 

Then  my  conscience  answered,  "Stiddy;  keep  a-givin  'em  the  baitl 
There  is  al'ays  ble&sin's  comin'  to  a  feller  that  can  wait." 


78  Songs  of  the  Rivers. 

An'  I  kep'  a  peekin'  downward  so  's  to  see  how  matters  stood, 
An7  I  held  a  lively  minny  jus'  as  near  'em  as  I  could; 
An1'  I  meant  it  as  a  primium  fer  the  scholars;  but  alas! 
Not  a  single  one  would  offer  fur  to  jine  my  cookin'-class! 

Then  they  sort  o'  laid  an'  rested  in  the  water  still  an5  deep, 
An'  they  dropped  their  noses  down'ard,  an'  appeared  to  go  to  sleep; 
An'  they  nestled  near  and  nearer  to  the  river's  sandy  floor, 
An'  I  listened  till  I  reckoned  I  could '  hear  the  fellers  snore ! 
An'  I  says,  "Lie  still  and  slumber;  I'm  a-watching  o'er  your  bed; 
If  you'll  only  wake  up  hungry,  here  is  blessin's  on  your  head! 

Bye  an'  bye  the  leader  started,  scratched  his  for'ead  with  a  fin, 
An'  he  stretched  an'  yawned  a  little,  an'  my  bait  it  wiggled  in 
('Twas  a  knowin'  breed  o'  minnies  we  was  rearin'  at  the  Bay), 
An'  the  bass  he  shut  his  mouth  up,  an'  the  hook  got  in  the  way; 
An'  before  he  hed  the  priv'lege  fur  to  flop  a  single  note, 
He  had  left  his  loved  companions,  an'  had  started  for  the  boat. 

Then  I  winked  unto  the  minny,  an'  I  thought  I  see  him  grin, 

An'  I  'magine  he  enjoyed  it,  so  I  sent  him  down  ag'in; 

An'  he  run  among  'em  lively — like  a  wiggler  in  a  cup; 

An'  kep'  knockin'  at  their  doorways,  till  he  woke  another  up; 

An'  the  fish  embraced  his  caller,  more  in  passion  than  in  love; 

An'  immediately  started  for  the  happy  land  above. 

One  by  one  the  others  wakened,  an'  the  word  was  passed  aroun' 
There  was  somethin'  there  fur  nothin'  that  hed  jus'  come  into  town; 
An'  they  soon  was  crazy  fur  it — an'  the  smartest  of  'em  led 
(Fur  a  fish  is  partly  human,  as  I  think  I  al'ays  said): 
An'  may  Ananias'  spirit  come  and  visit  me  tonight, 
Ef  them  everlastin'  fishes  didn't  stan'  in  line  to  bite! 

An'  my  boat  was  overloaded  till  it  sort  o'  sagged  an'  stuck, 
An'  I  sold  'em  out  in  messes  to  some  fellers  scant  of  luck; 
An'  some  fifty  reputations  as  a  fisherman,  no  doubt, 
Was  established  on  the  fishes  I'm  a-tellin'  ye  about; 
Anyhow,  the  rich  New  Yorkers,  they  was  buyin'  all  the  way 
From  the  islan'  of  the  basses  into  Alexandr'  Bay. 


From  Corn- field  to  River.  79 


FROM  CORN-FIELD  TO  RIVEB. 

Yes,  a  seashore  swimmin'-hole  in  a  manner  is  excitin' — 
Juinpin'  billows  like  a  hoop — or  with  ram-like  waves  a-fightin', 
Beddin'  in  the  flea-bit  sand  tryin'  to  improve  the  weather — 
In  a  pair  of  overhauls  an'  a  shirt-waist  sewed  together; 
But  for  me  I  must  agree  that  the  ocean  am' t  a  trimmin; 
To  the  day  we  ran  away  from  the  fields,  to  go  a-swimmin'! 
[Thus  said  Ahab  Adams,  riding  in  "my  auto-mo- what-is-it?" 
To  his  brother  Daniel  Adams  from  Montana  on  a  visit.] 

What  an  afternoon  that  was! — all  creation  seemed  a-burnin'! 

Sim  an'  Jim  an'  me  an'  you  agricult'ral  tricks  was  learnin'; 

'Mongst  the  corn  an'  punkin  vines  for  the  world's  advancement  growin', 

We  four  boys  was  takin'  walks  where  the  baked  world  needed  hoein'. 

What  a  hot-house  day  it  was!  sun  a  bonfire  just  above  us; 

Air  as  still  as  grassy  graves  of  the  folks  that  used  to  love  us; 

Skies  as  clear  as  babies'  eyes — old  moon  grinned  at  our  condition; 

Cloud  or  cloudlet  anywhere  was  an  unknown  proposition. 

So  we  done  the  horses'  work,  while  they  stood  'neath  shade-trees  charmin' 

(Cultivators  wan't  yet  made,  so  that  men  could  ride  their  farmin'). 

An'  we  walked  an'  hoed  an'  arg'ed  various  matters  of  creation 
That  would  make  us  think  way  off,  an'  forget  our  perspiration: 
Wondered  'bout  the  steamboat  craft  ploughin'  up  a  watery  furrow, 
Deacon  Smith  had  seen  one  day  when  he  went  to  Middleborough; 
Wondered  at  the  railroad  trains — how  there  ever  come  to  be  one — 
If  they'd  some  time  skip  our  way — or  we'd  ever  git  to  see  one; 
Talked  about  the  stars  on  high — mostly  suns  of  long  existence — 
Glad,  if  they  was  like  our  sun,  they  knowed  how  to  keep  their  distance; 
Talked  about  the  'lectric  wire  that  the  city-folks  was  gettin' — 
Won'dered  how  they  kep'  the  news,  when  'twas  rainy,  from  a  wettin'; 


80  Songs  of  the  Rivers. 

Talked  about  the  winter  school;  how  we  worked  there  like  the  dickens, 

On  the  sums;  an7  how,  somehow,  answers  wan't  as  flush  as  lickin's; 

How  warm  Sundays  growed  the  sermons;  how  we  never  got  to  miss  one; 

Wondered  if  the  other  world  had  a  corn-field  hot  as  -this  one; 

Talked  OUT  high  ambitions  higher,  mourned  the  poverty  that  bound  us- 

Talked  of  all  the  pretty  gals  for  ten  mile  or  so  around  us; 

Hoein'  with  our  minds  an7  hearts  facts  we'd  noticed  or  been  taught  of: 

Several  things  that  Markham's  fool  mebby  never  even  thought  of. 

But  while  we  was  bakin'  there,  raisin'  fodder  for  the  cattle, 
In  the  road  some  rods  away  we  could  hear  a  wagon  rattle; 
It  was  Dad,  a-drivin'  off  to'ds  the  village,  with  the  women; 
An'  I  recollect  you  said,  "Boys,  le's  sneak  an'  go  a-swimmin' !" 

I  hev  since  been  up  an'  down  through  agreements  an'  contentions; 

I  hev  even  helped  to  run  legislaters  an'  conventions; 

But  for  unanimity  right  up  equal  to  my  notion, 

I  hev  never  seen  it  yet,  since  the  time  you  made  that  motion. 

How  we  crept  off  through  the  woods  till  we  found  that  blessed  river! 
How  we  dove  into  its  depths,  with  a  first  delicious  shiver! 
How  we  paddled  up  an'  down!    How  we  splashed  each  others'  faces! 
How  we  tunnelled  through  the  water,  comin'  up  in  different  places! 
How  we  towed  each  other  round  by  the  hair  an'  heels  alternit! 
How  a  half  of  us  could  swim  an'  the  others  tried  to  learn  it! 
How  we  envied  everything  that  was  ever  scaled  or  finny! 
"This",  I  recollect  you  said,  "beats  the  corn-field  all  to  Guinea!" 

Yes,  'twas  heaven!  an'  when  'twas  through  nothin'  made  it  less  elatin', 
'Ceptin'  Dad  upon  the  bank,  with  some  birch-sticks,  calmly  waitin'. 


SONGS  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS. 


PROLOGUE. 


The  mountains!  the  mountains! 

With  crag-step  rough  and  steep; 
With  silent  form  and  hooded  storm, 

And  avalanche  asleep; 
Whose  tops  are  hieroglyphics 

By  fire  and  tempest  wrought, 
That  human  race  can  never  trace 

Till  God  the  key  has  brought. 

The  mountains!  the  mountains! 

When  fall  the  drenching  rains, 
That  glide  and  creep,  that  rush  and  leap 

To  find  their  ocean-plains! 
When  Winter  with  loud  trumpet 

But  soft  and  silent  tramp, 
Chains  brook  and  rill,  and  makes  each  hill 

A  white  tent  of  his  camp! 

The  mountains!  the  mountains! 

With  gardens  in  their  keep: 
With  bloom  that  shines,  and  emerald  vines, 

And  arbors  still  and  deep! 
E'en  in  the  tropic's  empire, 

Like  floral  worlds  they  tower; 
For  every  zone  that  earth  has  known, 

Will  send  a  greeting-flower. 

The  mountains!  the  mountains! 

Where  forests  live  and  die; 
Where  through  long  years  tree-mountaineers 

Are  struggling  toward  the  sky, 


84  Songs  of  the  Mountains. 

With  combats  fierce  though  silent, 
With  struggles  brave  and  long; 

While  in  their  tops  the  wind  oft  stops 
To  sing  their  battle-song. 

The  mountains!  the  mountains! 

That  harbor  beasts  of  prey; 
Where  wild-dogs  howl  and  panthers  prowl 

And  reptiles  shun  the  day; 
Where  serpents  creep  and  clamber, 

Where  eagle-broods  are  fed; 
And  caved  from  air  the  sullen  bear 

Has  found  his  winter  bed. 

The  mountains!  the  mountains! 

Where  sickness,  pain,  and  care 
'Gainst  ramparts  high  may  rest  their  eye, 

And  drink  the  creamy  air; 
Where  smile  the  clustered  landscapes, 

Where  robins  brood  and  nest; 
And  Nature's  child  with  song  beguiled 

May  on  her  bosom  rest. 

The  mountains!  the  mountains! 

Great  watch-tower  tops  have  they, 
Whence,  starred  and  clear,  Heaven  seems  so  near, 

And  earth  so  far  away! 
Whence  one  may  call  to  Jesus, 

Who  mused  on  hills  alone, 
Or  hearts  devote  to  Him  who  wrote 

The  mountain-page  of  stone. 


WHERE   SMILE   THE   CLUSTERED   LANDSCAPES 


To  the  Mountain  Profile.  85 


TO  THE  MOUNTAIN  PROFILE. 
From  Clara's  Mind, 

Giant  of  old,  formed  in  the  mould 

Of  some  god  of  the  past, 
What  wouldst  thou  say  if  thy  lips  of  gray 

Could  speak  at  last? 

Couldst  thou  not  tell  all  that  befell 

At  the  mountain's  fierce  birth, 
When  fiends  of  fire  made  a  red  pyre 

Of  the  desolate  earth? 

Wast  thou  not  here  when  from  the  drear 

Snowy  hills  of  the  North, 
Glaciers  of  gray  from  their  country  astray 

Sailed  in  majesty  forth? 

Was  it  a  crime  in  some  dead  time, 

That  imprisoned  thee  there? 
Penitent  now,  is  that  sad  brow 

Lifted  in  prayer? 

When  the  black  storm  winds  its  cold  form 

About  thy  face, 
Dost  thou  not  fear  destruction  near, 

Last  of  thy  race? 

Or,  when  the  sun,  life-giving  one, 

Cheers  the  world  and  the  sky, 
Dost  thou  e'er  groan  lest  while  Earth  holds  her  own, 

Thou  canst  not  die? 


86  Songs  of  tke  Mountains. 


TO  THE  SAME. 
From  Clara's  Big  Brothers  Mind. 

Weary  old  face  on  the  precipice  glowering, 
What  is  there  in  you  so  vastly  o'erpowering? 
Why,  as  men  gaze,  is  their  fancy  a  slave  of  you — 
Why  do  the  women  so  frequently  rave  of  you? 
Why  with  the  lens  do  they  render  absurder  you— 
Why  upon  plaques  do  they  maltreat  and  murder  you? 
Though  you've  no  visible  means  of  restraining  it, 
Still,  you  might  venture  some  mode  of  explaining  it) 

Many  a  novelist  eagerly  wrote  of  you — 
Poets  have  made  much  prosodical  note  of  you — 
Orators  oft  have  had  somewhat  to  say  of  you — 
Artists  have  offered  no  end  of  display  of  you; 
How  do  you  do  it? — while,  fatly  or  meagerly, 
Real  men  are  striving  for  notice  so  eagerly? 
Savage  old  face  on  the  precipice  slumbering, 
When  the  night  hours  their  black  minutes  are  num 
bering, 

Say!  are  the  sprites  with  sweet  visions  e'er  storing  you, 
Made  up  of  ladies  perversely  adoring  you? 
How  would  you  look,  if  effusively  facing  them? 
How  would  they  act  if  you  spoke  of  embracing  them? 
How  would  your  cold  kisses  prove  indigestible, 
Nature's  own  Frankenstein,  crude  and  detestable! 

You  must  have  met  with  some  startling  calamities: 
You  have  no  body,  no  arms,  no  extremities. 
Or  they  are,  if  we  persist  in  presuming  them, 
Buried  in  rock,  with  no  hope  of  exhuming  them. 


To  the  Same.  87 

Even  your  face — one  may  see,  with  facility, 

Stands  olf  in  parts  that  prevent  sociability 

(Unlike  those  maidens  who  nourish  the  pride  of  you); 

When  one  goes  round  to  a  different  side  of  you, 

Then  you  appear,  to  the  veriest  slow  body, 

Merely  a  wink  and  a  blink  and  a  nobodyl 

Still  keep  your  head  'mid   the  mountains'   rough 

comeliness — 

Answer  no  questions,  grim  fragment  of  homeliness: 
Many  a  boor,  from  mere  lack  of  loquacity, 
Builds  up  a  good  name  for  mental  capacity: 
Many  a  fool  is  a  wise  man  instead  to  us, 
Just  from  the  things  that  he  never  has  said  to  us. 

Long  as  the  roads  are  their  passengers  numbering, 
Long  as  the  stage  through  the  forest  is  lumbering, 
Long  as  the  summer-girl  washes  her  freckles  in, 
Long  as  the  inn-keeper  gathers  his  shekels  in, 
Long  as  good  folk  in  vacuity  sorrowing 
Are  from  the  past  exclamation-points  borrowing, 
Stay  where  you  are,  neatly  shelved  curiosity- 
Known   as   the   mountain's   most   monstrous   mon 
strosity! 


88  Songs  of  the  Mountains* 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS,  YOU  KNOW. 

^  old  fellow,  I  went  to  the  mountains,  you  know, 
Where  the  hyacinths  bloom  and  the  daffodils  blow; 
For  my  sister  was  there  with  her  bevy  of  seven; 
They  are  all  of  them  angels,  but  still  out  of  heaven. 
?Twas  "Oh,  Uncle,  you've  come!"  and  with  love-sea 
soned  pats, 

Like  a  frolicsome  parcel  of  juvenile  cats, 
They  hung  to  me,  clung  to  me,  wouldn't  let  me  go, 
On  the  first  day  I  got  to  the  mountains,  you  know. 

Then  a  walk  through  the  meadows  suggested  to  me 
An  escape  from  the  noise,  and  a  think,  don't  you  see; 
So  I  roamed  in  the  sweet-smelling  grasses  afar, 
And  I  borrowed  a  match  and  I  lit  a  cigar; 
Then  I  saw  through  the  fence,  lying  prone  and  asleep, 
A  peculiar  mild-countenanced  horn-handled  sheep; 
So  I  climbed  to  his  side  and  I  kindly  bent  low, 
And  awoke  him  to  see  what  he'd  do,  don't  you  know. 

And  I  saw,  very  soon;  for  he  rose  to  his  feet, 
And  commenced  a  peculiar  and  guarded  retreat; 
Retreated — ah — backward — face  toward  me,  I  mean, 
Just  the  same  as  folks  do  from  a  king  or  a  queen; 
And  I  pitied  him  much  for  the  fear  he  displayed, 
And  I  said,  "My  dear  chappie,  now  don't  be  afraid!" 
And  I  judge  he  was  not:  for,  dispenser  of  woe, 
He  came  at  me  as  if  from  a  gun,  don't  you  know! 

And  I  skipped  like  a  deer,  or  a  yacht  in  a  breeze, 
In  a  way  that  distended  my  pants  at  the  knees; 
And,  to  uttermost  speed  by  the  animal  pressed, 
I  relinquished  my  coat  and  my  necktie  and  vest; 


In  the  Mountains,  you  Know.  89 

And  I  went  round  the  field,  trying  hard  for  first 

place, 

Like  a  sprinter  that's  trying  to  capture  a  race; 
And,  "We'll  bet  on  you,  Uncle!"  was  screeched  to 

and  fro; 
For  the  children  had  climbed  on  the  fence,  don't 

you  know. 

As  was  afterwards  said,  'twas  quite  touching  to  see 
That  undignified  creature's  attachment  for  me; 
And  wherever  my  footsteps  would  go,  don't  you  mind, 
The  diminutive  monster  was  not  far  behind! 
And  he  seemed  to  have  picked  up  a  notion,  indeed, 
That  his  mission  on  earth  was  to  further  my  speed; 
And  I  think  that  we  furnished  a  capital  show 
To  the  people  that  happened  to  pass,  don't  you  know! 

Then  a  handsome  young  lady  stepped  over  the  stile, 

With  a  blessed  tin  dipper  of  salt,  and  a  smile;' 

And  she  said,  "Come,  Dick,  dear!"  (that's  the  name 

that  I  keep, 

But  I'm  glad  that  'twas  also  the  name  of  the  sheep; 
For  he  went  to  the  maid  to  be  fed  and  caressed, 
While  I  walked  down  the  road  for  a  while  and  re 
dressed); 

And  I've  made  up  my  mind  that  if  she'll  see  it  so, 
I  will  marry  that  girl  in  the  fall,  don't  you  know! 


90  Songs  of  the  Mountains. 


SOME  COUNTKY  SOLACE. 

Late  Evening. 

From  the  city's  constant  clatter, 

I  have  come,  with  purpose  deep 
Not  to  healthy  grow,  or  fatter, 

But  to  sleep,  and  sleep,  and  sleep. 
Not  so  much  in  hours  of  night-time 

(City  habits  capture  them!) 
For  I  rather  think  the  right  time 

Is  from  two  to  eight  A.  M. 
Oh  the  comfort  and  completeness 

Of  these  balmy  morning  naps! 
'Tis  because  they  hold  the  sweetness 

Found  in  stolen  goods,  perhaps. 
(Steal  the  golden  locks  one  may, 
From  the  foretop  of  the  day.) 

Scarce  could  words  contrive  the  shaping 
Of  the  noise  that  Fm  escaping! — 
Town  utilities  and  follies: 
Steam-cars,  horse-cars,  air-cars,  trollies, 
Butcher-boys,  the  distance  spurning, 

Strewing  flesh  the  city  o'er; 
Bottle-milkmen,  fiercely  churning 

Their  white  wares  from  door  to  door; 
Cats  through  garden-jungles  prowling, 
Dogs  with  death-notes  in  their  howling, 
All  the  highways'  crash  and  clatter — 
All  the  byways'  clash  and  chatter; 
Postman's  whistle,  iceman's  yelling, 
Huckster's  plea  for  double-selling; 
Door-bells,  school-bells,  fire-bells — every 


Some  Country  Solace.  91 

Kind  of  bell's  acoustic  slavery: 
All  these  helped  me  toward  obeying 
Solomon's  most  lively  saying, 
While  I  wondered  at  his  prizing 
Of  the  old  ant's  early  rising, 
So  as  in  soft  words  to  coddle 
Her,  and  pose  her  as  a  model! 

Early  Morning. 

How  we  miss  the  bliss  we  aim  for! 
Surely  'tis  not  this  I  came  for: 
Hear  the  rooster's  trumpet,  shaming 

All  who  do  not  greet  the  morn! 
Hear  the  hen's  wild  song,  proclaiming 

That  another  hope  is  born! 
Hear  the  wakeful  cattle  lowing 

For  the  gardens  of  the  herds; 
Hear  on  air  the  maids  bestowing 

Lexicons  of  damaged  words; 
Hear  the  robins'  notes  inspiring 

You  to  drink  those  rills  of  sound; 
Hear  the  sparrows,  loud  inquiring 

Where  the  early  worm  is  found! 
Then  back  to  your  covert  creeping, 
Try  again  the  art  of  sleeping, 

With  such  critics  grouped  around. 

I  can  stand  the  fitful  walker, 

Oft  he  comes — but  oft  he  goes; 
But  that  everlasting  talker 

Underneath  the  window's  nose! 
Words,  and  words,  without  endeavor, 
Speech-brook,  flowing  on  forever! 
Talking  every  subject  weary, 
Till  it  wilts — a  phantom  dreary; 
Pauseless  he — this  rural  Solon; 
Comma,  period,  semicolon, 
Xone  of  these  will  he  set  free. 


92  Songs  of  the  Mountains. 

Oh  what  blessedness,  if  he 

Would  cut  loose  those  pauses'  tether, 

And  like  old  Lord  Timothy, 
Let  them  all  appear  together! 

From  the  country's  clash  and  chatter, 

Creep  I,  not  by  half  so  merry, 
And,  to  try  and  mend  the  matter, 

Seek  the  silent  cemetery. 
There,  where  sleeping  is  the  fashion, 

I,  by  some  lone  grave,  mayhap, 
Can  indulge  my  silent  passion, 

And  secure  a  morning  nap. 
Even  then,  some  early-rising 

Bug  may  see  me,  I  suppose, 
And  begin  the  day  by  sizing 

The  compartments  of  my  nose. 
Only  dead  folks,  buried  deep, 
They  can  sleep,  and  sleep,  and  sleep. 


The  Maid  of  the  Mo^lnta^n.  93 


THE  MAID  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

It  was  morning  'mongst  the  hill-tops,  with  a  golden  day  begun, 
And  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain  caught  the  radiance  of  the  sun, 
And  some  fleecy  clouds  were  hanging  o'er  his  brow  serene  and  high, 
And  the  faded  moon  was  drifting  in  the  ocean  of  the  sky; 
While  the  banks  along  the  lakelet  were  with  breezes  hovered  o'er, 
And  the  ripples  whispered  softly  to  the  pebbles  on  the  shore. 

Now  a  summer-girl  had  wandered  on  her  nimble  steed  of  steel, 
And  was  gazing  on  the  water,  with  a  white  hand  on  her  wheel. 
Then  her  handsome  eyes  uplifted,  as  an  eagle  sought  his  nest, 
And  a  rush  of  girlish  fancies  gave  her  heart  a  new  unrest. 
"Oh,  the  emptiness  of  living!"  she  was  murmuring,  soft  and  low, 
"When  the  object  of  her  being  one  has  never  come  to  know! 

"I  have  mastered  all  my  studies  and  have  taken  a  degree — 

I  have  traveled  in  all  countries  that  had  anything  for  me; 

I  have  toiled  with  facts  and  fancies,  and  have  turned  them  inside  out; 

But  I  cannot  solve  the  problem— What  this  world  is  all  about! 

When  I  enter  life  in  earnest,  must  I  drone  along  the  way 

In  the  same  old  humdrum  fashion  that  mother  does  today? 

"If  my  hands  a  deed  could  compass  that  the  soul  of  man  would  cheer! 

If  I  could  but  speak  a  sentence,  that  the  noisy  world  would  hear! 

If  I  only  could  be  rated  as  a  hero  in  a  strife, 

Or  could  draw  a  soul  from  bondage,  or  could  save  a  human  life! 

I  would  feel  myself  requited  for  a  world  of  toil  and  pain; 

I  would  vow  that  I  was  happy,  and  that  life  was  not  in  vain!" 

As  she  spoke,  a  mimic  sailor  clove  the  lake,  not  far  away: 

He  was  young,  and  strong,  and  handsome,  with  a  fondness  for  display; 


94  Songs  of  the  Mountains. 

'Twas  a  gallant  tourist-student,  clad  in  mountain-climbing  suit; 
And  he  raised  his  cap  politely,  with  a  graceful,  kind  salute. 
But  the  sudden  move  capsized  him;  and  he  frantic  efforts  made 
To  learn  swimming  in  one  lesson— then  he  loudly  called  for  aid. 

And  the  treacherous  boat  escaped  him  and  went  drifting  from  his  clasp, 

And  he  raised  his  hands  in  horror,  without  e'en  a  straw  to  grasp; 

And  again  for  help  he  shouted;  then  retreated  'neath  the  wave; 

Then  appeared  again,  and  pleaded  for  a  friendly  hand  to  save. 

Then  the  girl,  with  heart  swift-beating,  rushing  to  the  lakelet's  brim, 

Said,  "My  chance  has  come:  thank  Heaven  that  a  girl  has  learned  to  swim!" 

And  she  sprang  into  the  water,  and  her  arms  with  vigor  plied, 

And  'twas  not  so  many  minutes  ere  she  hovered  at  his  side; 

And  she  bent  her  shapely  shoulder  to  his  eager,  trembling  hand, 

And  went  swimming  toward  the  safety  of  the  help-deserted  land. 

But  a  sturdy  breeze  came  sweeping  from  the  rude,  unfriendly  shore, 

And  the  cold  wind  pressed  against  her,  and  her  strength  availed  no  more. 

Then  she  struggled— oh,  how  bravely!  but  her  efforts  were  in  vain: 
And  she  kept  above  the  water — but  no  vantage  could  she  gain; 
And  she  prayed  to  God  in  Heaven,  hoping  He  might  lend  an  ear: 
But  Heaven  seemed  so  far  above  her,  and  destruction  was  so  near! 
And  she  wildly  gazed  to  shoreward,  with  a  weak,  despairing  cry; 
But  no  help  appeared  in  answer,  and  it  seemed  that  one  must  die. 

And  the  struggling  man  looked  at  her,  and  then  whispered  in  her  ear, 
"You  can  reach  the  shore  in  safety,  if  you  only  leave  me  here; 
It  were  better  one  should  perish  than  that  death  should  capture  two; 
You  have  risked  your  life  to  save  me — I  will  give  my  life  for  you. 
You  have  shown  yourself  a  heroine;  you  have  done  your  best  to  save!" 
Then  he  loosed  his  hold  upon  her,  and  was  sinking  in  the  wave. 

Then  a  thousand  thoughts  were  darting  through  her  peril-quickened  brain, 
And  sweet  home  and  friends  and  parents  stood  before  her,  clear  and  plain; 
And  she  saw  the  joys  and  pleasures  that  had  lingered  at  her  feet, 
And  life  empty  seemed  no  longer — it  was  wondrous  dear  and  sweet! 
And  the  question  flashed  upon  her — and  the  answer  were  a  strife — 
"Shall  I  leave  this  man  behind  me  in  the  hope  to  save  my  life?" 


IT  WAS   MORNING    '\IONGST   THE   HILL-TOPS 


SONGS  OF  THE  NATION. 


GEEATER  AMERICA. 

Greater  America — stronger  America — 
Wide  as  the  world  thy  beneficent  fame; 

Child  of  the  earth's  grandest  struggle  for  liberty — 
Hope  ever  smiles  at  the  sound  of  thy  name! 

Greater  America — wider  America — 
Ever  the  stronger  and  ever  the  same! 

Thou  hast  of  rivers  that  far  and  unceasingly 
Through  the  wide  valleys  of  opulence  flow; 

Thou  hadst  of  deserts  that  diligent  husbandry 
Turned  to  the  richest  of  gardens  that  grow! 

Greater  America — richer  America- 
Many  a  summer  thy  harvest  shall  glow! 

Thou  hast  of  mountains,  with  snow-knitted  canopies 
Pierced  by  the  rocks  that  to  heaven  aspire; 

Thou  hast  volcanoes — new  torchlights  of  liberty — 
Sending  the  cold  waves  a  message  of  fire. 

Greater  America — brighter  America— 
Thou  art  the  flame  of  the  patriot's  desire! 

Thou  hast  of  lakes  that  in  sweetest  tranquillity 

Lie  as  if  sky  upon  earth  were  at  rest; 
Thou  hast  two  oceans,  with  many  an  argosy 

Seeking  thy  shores  from  the  East  and  the  West. 
Greater  America — prouder  America — 

Thou  by  the  earth  and  the  ocean  art  blest! 

Thou  art  the  world's  latest  refuge  from  tyranny- 
Out  of  the  shadows  they  hurried  to  thee; 

Now  does  thy  hand,  that  has  brightened  their  destiny, 
Carry  good  news  to  the  isles  of  the  sea. 

7 


98  Songs  of  the  Nation. 

Greater  America — kinder  America — 

Still  art  them  teaching  the  world  to  be  free! 

Thou  hast  of  soldiers  whose  hearts  heat  in  loyalty 

Trained  in  the  pride  of  their  forefathers  grand; 

Ask  of  the  foe  that  has  tested  their  bravery, 

How  they  can  fight  for  their  own  cherished  land! 

Greater  America — fiercer  America — 

Thou  hast  thy  millions  of  men  at  command! 

Thou  hast  of  sailors  whose  warships  of  majesty 
Plough  through  the  waves  at  thy  every  behest; 

Deep  is  their  cannons'  far-echoing  melody, 
Chanting  the  liberty-song  of  the  West. 

Greater  America—prouder  America— 
Now  of  the  pride  of  the  ocean  possessed! 

Thou  hast  of  hearts  that  will  fight  for  thee  faithfully, 
Calling  thee  ever  their  loved  and  their  own; 

Patron  of  order  and  teacher  of  liberty, 

E'er  with  the  blessings  of  liberty  strown— 

Greater  America — truer  America — 

Grandest  of  nations  earth  ever  has  known! 


Song — Language  of  the  Flag.  99 


SONG— LANGUAGE  OF  THE  FLAG. 

0  stars  of  our  flag  one  by  one  you  arose, 

'Till  the  sky  on  our  banner  was  blazing  with  splendor! 
Each  ray  from  their  depths  is  a  night  to  our  foes, 

And  a  sunburst  of  joy  to  the  gallant  defender. 
Not  only  their  worth  cheers  the  land  of  your  birth, 
But  flings  its  clear  light  to  the  ends  of  the  earth! 
And  the  nation  shall  never  from  victory  rest, 
'Till  the  world  is  as  free  as  the  Land  of  the  West! 

0  stripes  of  the  flag! — you  are  emblems  of  woe 

That  fell  on  the  hearts  of  the  founders  we  cherish; 
'Gainst  the  frowns  of  the  storm  and  the  guns  of  the  foe 

They  fought  that  the  land  of  their  love  should  not  perish. 
The  stripes  that  gleam  red  are  from  blood  that  was  shed, 
And  the  white  ones  between  are  from  shrouds  of  our  dead; 
And  farther  and  farther  this  emblem  shall  wave, 
'Till  the  world  has  forgot  that  there  e'er  was  a  slave! 

0  staff  of  our  flag! — you  are  sturdy  and  strong, 

Like  the  people  whose  hands  and  whose  hearts  must  uphold  you! 
You  cling  to  the  colors,  through  tempests  of  wrong, 

Or  when  'mid  the  zephyrs  of  peace  they  enfold  you. 
On  many  a  field,  you  have  scorned  e'er  to  yield, 
For  the  hearts  of  the  brave  were  your  sword  and  your  shield ; 
And  you  promise  for  ages  to  stay  in  your  might, 
'Till  the  world  gathers  round  you — firm  standard  of  right! 


100  Songs  of  the  Nation. 


SONG— WESTEKLAKD. 

Between  the  oceans  deep  and  wide, 

Westerland,   0  Westerland, 
Are  many  nations  side  by  side, 

Westerland,  0  Westerland! 
The  waves  that  greet  thy  rocky  shore, 
And  tell  thy  triumphs  o'er  and  o'er, 
Say  thou  shalt  live  forevermore, 
Westerland,  0  Westerland! 

From  many  mountains,  broad  and  high, 

Westerland,   0  Westerland, 
Thy  face  is  lifted  toward  the  sky, 
Westerland,  0  Westerland! 
The  storms  that  leap  from  hill  to  hill, 
The  lightning-bolts  that  dart  and  thrill, 
But  make  thy  people  stronger  still, 
Westerland,  0  Westerland! 

From  prairies  rich  and  golden  mines, 

Westerland,   0  Westerland, 
Thy  wealth  in  constant  splendor  shines, 

Westerland,  0  Westerland! 
The  wealth  that  God  has  given  to  thee, 
That  thou  a  power  for  good  might  be, 
And  teach  the  nations  to  be  free, 
Westerland,  0  Westerland! 

May  all  thy  ways  be  just  and  pure, 

Westerland,  0  Westerland! 
That  thou  through  ages  mayst  endure, 

Westerland,  0  Westerland! 
Till,  emblem  of  the  free  and  brave, 
O'er  Tyranny's  dishonored  grave, 
Thy  flag  around  the  world  shall  wave, 
Westerland,  0  Westerland! 


New  England's  Home-Call.  101 


NEW  ENGLAND'S  HOME-CALL. 

0  children,  my  children,  where'er  you  may  be, 
From  your  far-scattered  dwellings  come  home  once 

to  me! 

If  you  live  upon  mountains  where  valor  was  born, 
Do  they  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  America's  morn? 
If  you  delve  in  the  prairie's  horizon-fenced  field, 
Has  it  comelier  fruits  than  my  valleys  can  yield? 
If  pictures  of  splendor  your  cities  have  wrought, 
Have  not  their  strong  frames  from  the  hillsides  been 

brought? 

If  you  search  in  the  mines  for  the  wealth  that  is  dear, 
The  precious  gold-dust  of  your  kindred  is  here; 
If  temples  of  learning  loom  fair  on  your  view, 
The  little  old  school-house  is  waiting  for  you. 
With  motherly  pride  still  the  children  I  greet, 
As  they  rush  from  the  door  in  their  coverless  feet, 
Or  learn  the  book-lessons  of  life,  one  by  one, 
The  same  as  a  Greeley  and  Webster  have  done. 
Do  you  kneel  in  cathedrals? — but  do  not  forget 
That  the  staid  Doric  meeting-house  prays  for  you  yet. 
The  grasses  still  bend  with  the  worshipping  breeze, 
The  robins  have  singing-pews  up  in  the  trees; 
And  saints  that  are  dead,  still  to  earth-loves  akin, 
Thrill  the  souls  of  the  people  that  worship  within. 
0  children,  dear  children,  where'er  you  may  dwell, 


102  Songs  of  the  Nation. 

In  mountain  or  hillside  or  valley  or  dell, 

Or  island  oases  in  deserts  of  sea, 

0  children,  my  children,  come  home  once  to  me! 

Which  one  of  her  own  can  a  mother  forget? 
My  heart  is  not  granite:  I  long  for  you  yet. 
Come  back 'to  the  past!  there  are  still  at  my  feet 
The  honest  delights  that  make  memory  sweet: 
The  asters  and  golden-rods  stay  with  their  bloom, 
The  roses  are  breathing  their  gentle  perfume; 
The  thistle  yet  blushes  ere  flying  its  seed, 
The  clematis  clings — gleaming  snow-drift  of  weed. 
The  wild-cherries  ripen;  the  sumac^tree  turns; 
Like  emeralds  in  air  swing  the  maidenhair  ferns. 
The  alder  is  hidden  by  clusters  of  vine, 
The  birch  waxes  pale  at  the  march  of  the  pine, 
The  willow  the  wrongs  of  the  forest  yet  grieves, 
And  the  elm  clambers  straight  to  its  branches  and 

leaves. 

The  song-sparrow  came  from  his  bright  summer  nest, 
The  eagle,  brave  cloud-mountaineer,  is  my  guest; 
The  lark  sings  his  swift-speeding  hymn  to  the  sun, 
And  the  whippoorwill  laughs  when  the  daylight  is 

done. 
Sweet  mosses  are  flocking  on  bowlder  and  tree; 

0  children,  my  children,  come  home  once  to  me! 

Did  I  fondle  in  tempests  your  first  feeble  wail? 

Did  I  rock  you  asleep  to  the  song  of  the  gale  ? 

Did  I  linger  by  windows  of  cottages  low, 

And  cover  your  couches  with  blankets  of  snow? 

Did  I  bar  you  from  Nature's  unlimited  store, 

Till  you  knocked  with  bare  knuckles  of  toil  at  her 

door? 

Did  I  temper  like  steel  in  a  scythe-blade  your  wills, 
And  set  in  your  blood  the  clear  grit  of  the  hills? 
Did  I  teach  you  Economy's  dignified  craft, 
Withholding  the  weakness  of  Luxury's  draught? 

1  was  handing  you  hardships  you  one  day  would 

bless, 


New  England's  Home-Call.  103 

I  was  planting  your  youth  with  the  seeds  of  success; 
I  was  giving  your  natures  a  climate  of  worth 
That  would  bend  to  their  will  any  climate  on  earth. 
'Twas  the  training  that  nurtures  the  thrifty  and  free; 
0  children,  my  children,  come  home  once  to  me! 

From  my  watch-towers  of  hills  I  have  viewed  you 

afar, 

Wherever  the  toils  of  humanity  are; 
And  the  waves,  as  they  rushed  for  a  moment  to  greet 
The  mountain-bred  beaches  that  lie  at  my  feet, 
Have  sung  of  my  daughters  and  sons,  o'er  and  o'er, 
That  landed  wherever  the  sea  has  a  shore. 
No  moment  forget  I  the  love  and  the  worth 
Of  my  children  yet  dwelling  in  halls  of  their  birth, 
Not  deeming  those  less  who  in  valley  and  hill 
Stay  home  with  the  parent  and  comfort  her  still, 
And  who  high  on  their  mountains  keep  trimmed  and 

in  view 

Bright  torches  of  welcome  that  glisten  for  you; 
But  never  a  mother,  by  night  or  by  day, 
Can  hush  the  heart's  call  for  the  child  that's  away! 
Come  back  to  the  firesides!  come  back  to  the  groves! 
To  woods  in  which  Memory  is  lost  as  she  roves! 
Bring  back  the  old  songs  that  so  linger  you  near, 
You  sing  them  in  accents  no  other  can  hear; 
Bring  back  the  quaint  stories  of  hillside  and  glen, 
That  laugh  themselves  over  again  and  again; 
Bring  back  the  rude  legends  of  struggle  and  woe; 
Bring  back  all  the  joys  of  the  sweet  long  ago! 
My  heart  is  not  granite;  I  long  you  to  see; 
0  children,  my  children,  come  home  once  to  me! 


104  Songs  of  the  Nation. 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  VOLUNTEERS. 

They  marched  their  ways  through  the  sunlit  days — 

A  pageant  bright  and  strong; 
Oh  many  a  word  of  cheer  they  heard 

From  many  a  crowded  throng! 
'Twas  the  orator's  cry,  "You  pencil  high 

In  letters  of  gold  each  name: 
As  you  walk  the  streets  to  loud  drum-beats, 

You  are  climbing  the  hills  of  fame!" 
'Twas  the  matron's  cry,  "There  is  suffering  nigh, 

To  furrow  the  laurelled  brow; 
But  never  was  yet  a  mother's  debt 

More  splendidly  paid  than  now!" 
'Twas  the  maiden's  cry,  "It  is  sweet  to  die 

For  the  country's  sake,  'tis  said; 
But  be  you  true,  my  lover  in  blue, 

I  will  love  you  alive  or  dead!" 

They  marched  their  ways  in  the  bright  spring  days 

Past  statues  great  and  tall 
Of  the  country's  pride,  who  had  lived  or  died 

And  given  the  land  their  all. 
And  Lincoln  seemed  to  the  heart  that  dreamed, 

From  his  chiselled  lips  to  speak: 
"The  mission  of  might  should  be  to  fight 

For  those  that  are  crushed  and  weak!" 
And  Grant  spoke  loud  to  the  marching  crowd, 

"Make  heavy  and  hard  your  blows; 
The  shortest  way  to  a  peaceful  day 

Is  over  a  field  of  foes!" 
And  Fame's  star-son,  our  Washington, 

Spoke  then  from  his  kingless  throne, 
"You  are  heart  and  hand  with  the  greatest  land 

That  ever  the  world  has  known!" 


Do  not  Forget  the   Wounded.  105 


DO   NOT  FORGET   THE   WOUNDED. 

Now,  in  the  days  of  triumph,  when  victory's  golden  bells 

Sweep  like  a  song  of  gladness  over  the  hills  and  dells, 

Do  not  forget  the  wounded — the  almost  worse  than  slain, 

Waging  a  fight,  by  day  and  night,  with  the  slow,  grim  enemy — Pain! 

Now,  when  the  cities  are  safer  because  of  their  battles  grand, 

Now,  when  the  mountains  are  sweeter  because  there  is  peace  in  the  land, 

Do  not  forget  the  sick  men — lying  in  misery  there, 

Who  made  their  fight  for  God  and  the  right,  in  that  blazing  tropical  glare! 

Far  from  their  home  and  kindred — far  from  the  joys  of  life, 
Far  from  the  restful  soothing  of  mother,  sister,  or  wife, 
Alone  because  they  were  noble,  in  agony's  fearful  clutch- 
Is  there  a  gem  too  bright  for  them,  or  a  help  that  costs  too  much? 

Jewels  and  satins  and  laces — how  sweetly  they  gleam  above 

The  cherished  forms  and  faces  of  those  that  we  know  and  love! 

But  what  were  all  of  their  splendor,  if  dimmed  with  deadly  fear? 

If  fortress  and  town  were  beaten  down,  and  the  Spanish  hosts  were  here? 

Oh,  it  was  grand  and  glorious  to  get  the  news  of  peace, 
When  from  the  Chief  came  sounding  the  words  that  war  might  cease; 
Glad  were  the  welcome  tidings  that  sped  o'er  valley  and  hill; 
But  the  wounds  that  were  made  by  fever  and  blade,  are  aching  and  bleed 
ing  still! 

Greet  the  returning  heroes  and  trim  their  pathway  grand: 
There's  ne'er  too  good  a  gift  for  those  who  fight  for  their  native  land! 
Honor  to  all  the  boys  in  blue  and  make  their  coming  bright, 
But  never  forget  the  heavy  debt  we  owe  to  the  boys  in  white! 


106  Songs  of  the  Nation. 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  MOTHER. 
Mary  A.  Bicker  dyke — War-Nurse. 

Through  the  wide  reach  of  Eternity's  portals 

Marched  an  unbroken  procession  of  mortals: 

Held  through  the  clouds  and  the  sunlight  their  way — 

Those  who  had  "died"  on  that  day. 

Each  was  to  each  near  as  sister  or  brother; 

Pauper  and  millionaire  jostled  each  other; 

Jewels  and  money  the  dying  might  save; 

Beauty  was  left  in  the  grave. 

Out  of  Death's  mystery-moment  of  slumber, 
Warriors  and  potentates  came,  without  number. 
Many  the  friends  of  the  past  they  were  meeting! 
But  there  was  heard  no  tumultuous  greeting, 
Till  came  a  woman,  with  days  fully  told — 
Wrinkled  and  weary  and  old. 

Then  the  great  news  traversed  all  of  those  regions; 

Then  came  a  rally  of  swift-footed  legions; 

Making  with  plaudits  the  path  all  aglow, 

Down  which  this  woman  must  go. 

Ne'er  were  the  honors  she  lingered  between, 

Paid  to  a  king  or  a  queen! 

Not  with  grim  tools  of  the  death^dealing  labor; 

Not  with  presenting  of  musket  or  saber; 

But  by  an  edge  of  the  fame-bordered  street, 

Knelt  every  man  at  her  feet. 

Then  said  those  soldiers,  in  accents  caressing, 
"Mother,  0  Mother,  your  glance  and  your  blessing: 
Well  may  that  luxury  thrill  with  delight — 


The  Passing  of  the  Mother.  107 

Make  even  Heaven  more  bright!" 

Then  said  the  woman,  "My  heroes,  'tis  done: 

Kise  to  your  feet,  every  one. 

Nought  in  my  work  was  of  grandeur  or  beauty: 

Love  was  my  countersign — Help  was  my  duty." 

Then  said  a  soldier,  "I  lay  on  a  meadow, 

Scythed  by  fierce  battle — then  garnered  in  shadow. 

Night's  gloomy  sepulchre  gathered  around  me; 

Man  had  deserted  and  God  had  not  found  me. 

'Let  the  dead  rest',  said  my  comrades,  in  sorrow: 

'Then  to  Earth's  arms  we  will  give  them  tomorrow/ 

And  the  dead  rested:  but  I,  partly  slain, 

Watched  with  my  murderous  pain. 

Then  my  weak  lips  could  not  utter  a  word — 

Only  a  groan;  but  'twas  heard! 

Heard  by  one  heart  through  the  sulphurous  dis 
tance — 

Heart  that  was  toiling  for  others'  existence. 

How  like  a  star  to  my  life's  eager  craving, 

Looked  the  rude  lantern  she  bore  to  my  saving; 

How  she  brought  back  to  me  Earth's  vanished 
charms — 

Lifting  me  there  in  her  arms! 

Tell  me,  0  comrades:  and  is  it  not  meet 

That  I  should  bow  at  her  feet?" 

Then  said  a  soldier,  "The  North-wind  was  sweeping 

Down  through  the  Sun-land:  its  white  blades  were 
reaping 

Harvests  of  death;  and  the  torn  tents  were  falling 

In  that  new  tempest  of  bleakness  appalling. 

Men  full  of  deeds  fit  for  Spartan  or  Koman 

Shrank  from  the  charge  of  our  frost-crested  foe- 
man 

Bidding  defiance  to  sword  and  to  gun — 

Scorning  the  earth  and  the  sun. 

'Moscow-retreat',  thought  both  timid  and  brave — 

'Not  into  France — but  the  grave/ 

Oh,  but  all  valor  had  proved  unavailing, 

But  for  our  Mother's  swift  courage  unfailing! 


108  Songs  of  the  Nation. 

Joan  of  Arc  'gainst  this  enemy  pallid, 

Gaily  her  hosts  of  resistance  she  rallied. 

Soon   from    her  warm  heart  so   dauntless  though 

tender, 

Sprang  a  huge  campfire  unrivalled  in  splendor: 
Even  the  ramparts  she,  fearless  of  blame, 
Stole,  for  the  life-giving  flame. 
'Under  arrest'  for  that  glorious  robbing, 
Still  was  her  great  soul  with  sympathy  throbbing; 
Convict  of  red-tape,  proud  prisoner  heroic, 
Heart  of  a  Christian  and  nerves  of  a  Stoic, 
Hailed  she  the  conflict,  and  entered  upon  it: 
Fought  a  campaign  'gainst  Destruction — and  won 

it; 

Charged  with  her  might  on  the  cohorts  of  Grief — 

Gave  every  suf'ring  relief. 

Many  a  poor  boy,  in  homesickness  dumb, 

Felt  that  his  mother  had  come! — 

We  who  had  died  had  she  reckoned  without  us, 

There  in  those  graves  that  were  freezing  about  us, 

But  for  the  hardship  and  blame  that  she  bore, 

Who  would  have  done  for  us  more? 

What  though  she  signal  me  frowns  as  I  tell  it: 

Who  but  our  God  could  excel  it?" 

Then  said  a  soldier,  "My  life-blood  was  flowing; 

Into  the  future  this  sad  soul  was  going. 

Darkest  of  robes  my  crushed  spirit  was  wearing! 

What  had  I  left,  but  eternal  despairing? 

Then  to  the  scene  this  evangelist  brought 

Prayers  that  my  parents  had  taught; 

Then  with  sweet  hymns  she  my  anguish  beguiled — 

Hymns  I  had  loved  when  a  child. 

Then  did  this  saint,  with  fond  eyes  bending  o'er, 

Sing  of  the  sweet  'Shining  Shore'; 

Then  came  the  Land  of  the  Blest  to  my  seeing; 

Then  a  bright  future  pervaded  my  being; 

Then  did  the  pangs  of  my  pain  cease  to  cumber; 

Then  did  I  glide  into  blisses  of  slumber. 

Slept  with  that  soul-thrilling  voice  in  my  ear, 


The  Passing  of  the  Mother.  109 

Full  of  enchantment  and  cheer; 

Slept  till  I  journeyed  from  Night  into  Day, 

Dreaming  that  song  all  the  way. 

So  did  she  soothe  me  as  could  but  one  other — 

Sanctified  Sister  and  Mother!" 

Then  came  the  Christ  of  Humanity:  saying, 
"Daughter,  thy  crown;  I,  my  Father  obeying. 
Gladly  this  token  of  glory  bring  nigh, 
Gleaming  with  stars  of  the  sky. 
Stars  of  all  magnitudes  flash,  as  thou  waitest: 
All  hast  thou  blessed — from  the  least  to  the  great 
est." 

Then  said  the  woman,  "0  Master  of  Mission! 
Hear  thee,  I  pray  thee,  a  humble  petition: 
Let  me  work  on,  my  vocation  pursuing: 
Nought  have  I  done  to  what  yet  needs  the  doing. 
Stow  this  sweet  gift  in  some  worthier  place, 
While  I  still  toil  for  my  race!" 


110  Songs  of  the  Nation, 


THE  ABSENT  SOLDIEK'S  CHILD. 

By  the  dusty  roadway  wand'ring, 

Came  I  to  a  garden  fair; 
Spendthrift  flowers  were  gaily  squandering 

Sweets  upon  the  summer  air. 

Trained  and  trellised  vines  sedately 
Nursed  their  buds  to  blossoms  bright; 

Trees  were  standing,  tall  and  stately, 
In  the  sunbeams'  mellow  light. 

Lacked  my  lovely  garden  only 
Human  forms,  to  perfect  be: — 

Brightest  spots  grow  dull  and  lonely, 
When  but  one  there  is  to  see. 

Look!   there  comes  a  tiny  maiden, 

From  an  angle  of  the  wall, 
With  a  score  of  flow'rets  laden 

(She  the  fairest  of  them  all); 

To  a  shapely  mound,  low-clinging 
In  that  garden's  choicest  nook, 

This  young  maiden,  softly  singing, 
All  her  blossomed  riches  took. 

With  a  bound,  I  stood  before  her: 
"Why  is  this,  my  little  maid?" 

Soft  I  whispered1,  bending  o'er  her; 
She  was  shy,  but  not  afraid. 


The  Absent  Soldiers  Child.  Ill 

In  her  eyes  a  teardrop  glistened, 

In  her  voice  were  thrills  of  love; 
And  I  worshipped  while  I  listened 

As  to  angels  from  above: 

"Papa  far  away  is  sleeping 

AVith  some  soldier-friends/'  she  said: 
"He  is  in  his  Saviour's  keeping; 

But  we  cannot  find  his  bed. 

"Yes,  in  Heaven  his  soul  is  living! 

But  it  makes  him  seem  more  near, 
If  I,  flow'rets  to  him  giving, 

'Make  believe'  that  he  is  here." 


112  Songs  of  the  Nation. 


A  SONG  FOE  OUK  FLEETS. 

A  song  for  our  fleets — our  iron  fleets 

Of  grim  and  savage  beauty, 
That  plough  their  way  through  fields  of  spray, 

To  follow  a  nation's  duty! 
The  winds  may  blow  and  the  waves  may  flow 

And  stars  may  hide  their  faces, 
But  little  we  reck;  our  stars  o'er-deck 

Still  glitter  within  their  places! 

Let  never  a  one  who  gazes  on 

This  pageant  calm  but  splendid, 
Doubt  that  our  coasts  from  hostile  hosts 

Will  gallantly  be  defended! 
A  desperate  foe  may  wish  us  woe; 

But  what  is  their  petty  knavery 
Against  the  right,  when  backed  with  might 

And  Anglo-Saxon  bravery? 

A  song  for  our  fleets — our  gallant  fleets, 

'Neath  flags  of  glory  flying, 
That  carried  the  aid,  so  long  delayed, 

To  those  that  were  crushed  and  dying! 
And  flames  might  glow,  and  blood  might  flow; 

But  still,  with  a  stern  endeavor, 
We  ruled  the  main,  and  lashed  foul  Spain 

From  our  Western  world  forever! 


c   I 
^  o 

o  £ 


D   7J 


Gridley.  113 


GRIDLEY. 

Not  till  the  fight  was  done, 
Not  till  the  last  fierce  gun 

Startled  the  wave, 
Didst  thou,  at  Death's  low  call, 
Turning  thy  back  to  all, 

Sail  for  the  grave. 

Glory  withheld  till  now 
Gleamed  on  thy  modest  brow, 

'Mid  plaudits  grand; 
Warrior  of  ocean,  we 
Waited  with  wreaths  for  thee 

In  thine  own  land. 

Those  that  thou  lovedst  were  here, 
Yearning  till  thou  wast  near 

To  tell  their  pride; 
Through  many  an  ocean-storm, 
Hearts  ever  fond  and  warm 

Sailed  by  thy  side. 

True  as  thy  ship's  good  steel, 
Hiding,  with  Spartan  zeal, 

The  murderous  pain, 
In  ocean's  grandest  fight 
Thy  hand  was  first  to  smite 

The  brow  of  Spain. 

Firmer  than  mountain-rocks 
That  breast  the  storm-cloud  shocks- 
With  courage  proud 
8 


114  Songs  of  the  Nation. 

Didst  thou  on  fury's  track 
Iron  thunderbolts  hurl  back, 
And  rend  the  cloud. 

Not  till  thy  fame's  bright  star 
Had  pierced  the  mists  of  war, 

And  glittered  high, 
Did  thy  choice  spirit  turn, 
And,  higher  rank  to  earn, 

Seek  the  blue  sky. 


Comiri  Back  to  'Pelier.  115 


COMIN'  BACK  TO  TELIER. 

Vermont  Farmer's  Version. 

Dewey's  comin!  load  the  anvils!  fill  the  welcome-cup! 
Comin'  back  to  Teller,  whar  he  hed  his  bringin'  up; 
Comin'  from  the  torrid  zone,  an'  the  battle's  brunt — 
Fetchin'  us  a  history — his  pictur'  way  in  front! 
Wabblin'  under  praises  more  than  he  can  count, 

An'  goin'  to  bring  the  whole  thing  back  to  old  Yarmount ! 
Yes,  they'll  try  to  spile  him,  when  he  gits  as  fur  as  'York: 
Give  him  linen  napkins,  an'  a  silver  knife  an'  fork; 
Speechin'  him  an'  preachin'  him,  an?  tryin'  to  explain 
Somethin'  that  he  knows  already — how  he  walloped  Spain; 
Showin'  him  the  Brooklyn  Bridge  in  reg'lar  welcome-trim, 
Tryin'  to  make  out,  p'rhaps,  they  built  it  all  for  him; 
Feedin'  him  on  china,  for  his  breakfas',  dine,  an'  sup; 

But  you  wait  till  he's  in  Telier,  where  he  hed  his  bringin'-up! 

Yes,  it's  somethin',  these  here  honors  thankful  people  give, 
In  the  towns  an'  counties  whar  he  didn't  use  to  live; 
Xothin',  you  will  see,  though,  the  hearts  of  townsmen  melts, 
Like  a  townsman's  honors  he  hez  picked  up  somewhar  else! 
Ain't  no  room  fur  jealousy,  when  they  thus  advance: 
"All  of  us  c'u'd  done  the  same,  ef  we'd  hed  a  chance!" 
Let  'em  give  him  gilded  houses,  fur  a  splendid  prison: 
But  when  he  lands  in  Telier,  all  the  village  will  be  his'n! 

Folks'll  come  from  all  p'ints — a  hundred  miles  may  be, 
To  view  the  hill-bred  sailor  that  is  hero  of  the  sea; 
Island-born  an'  prairie-born  the  contrac'  often  fills, 
But  fur  somethin'  more'n  unusual,  try  the  everlastin'  hills! 


Songs  of  the  Nation. 

Men'll  turn  their  backs  to  the  mountains  fur  to  see  him, 
Boys'll  sprout  ambition,  an'll  wish  that  they  could  be  him; 
OF  maids  they  will  wonder  how  they  ever  came  to  miss  him, 
Galls'll  sort  o'  flutter,  an'll  wish  that  they  could  kiss  him. 
01'  Seth  Warner's  honored  ghost'll  haste  to  see  the  show, 
Brave  Eemember  Baker'll  be  among  the  first  to  go; 
An'  it's  toPble  certain,  that  before  the  spree  is  done, 
Colonel  Ethan  Allen'll  be  up  from  Burlin'ton. 
But  George  won't  turkey  'roun'  no  more,  I'll  bet  ye,  ten  to  one, 
Than  in  days  when  he  wa'n't  nothin'  'ceptin'  01'  Doc  Dewey's  son, 

Dewey's  comin' — fire  the  anvils!  drain  the  welcome-cup! 
Comin'  down  to  Teller,  whar  he  hed  his  bringin'-up; 
Dewey's  comin'!  wave  the  banners!  string  'em  all  about! 
Comin'  down  to  Teller,  whar  he  form'ly  started  out; 
Bringin'  new  geogeraphies,  a  year  or  less  in  age, 
That's  got  his  pictur',  true  as  life,  right  on  the  openin'  page! 


In  the    Wreckage  of  the  Maine.  117 


IN  THE  WRECKAGE   OF  THE  MAINE. 

In  the  farm-lands  or  the  city 

Grieves  a  woman — sad — alone; 
'Neath  God's  everlasting  pity 

She  is  weeping  for  her  own. 
Cabinets  have  toiled  and  wrangled, 

Statesmen  could  not  soothe  her  pain — 
For  that  weary  heart  is  tangled 

In  the  wreckage  of  the  Maine. 

Through  the  golden  halls  of  fashion 

Moves  a  lady  tall  and  fair; 
Round  her  gleam  the  flames  of  passion 

On  the  soft  magnetic  air. 
Suitors  bow  and  bend  above  her, 

But  'their  wiles  are  all  in  vain : 
She  is  thinking  of  a  lover 

In  the  wreckage  of  the  Maine. 

On  a  cot,  the  sailor  lying 

Rests  his  soul  in  silent  prayer; 
Through  the  long  days  he  is  dying; 

But  his  tears  are  falling  there 
For  the  gallant  fellow-seamen 

Who  will  rest,  while  Time  shall  reign, 
In  that  sepulchre  of  freemen, 

'Neath  the  wreckage  of  the  Maine. 

On  a  continent  of  splendor 

Is  a  nation  calmly  grand- 
Freedom's  natural  defender — 

Honest  labors  helping  hand: 
And  it  speaks,  half  kind,  half  cruel: 

"Liberty,  0  haughty  Spain, 
Soon  may  grasp  another  jewel 

From  the  wreckage  of  the  Maine!" 


118  Songs  of  the  Nation. 


CUBA  TO  COLUMBIA. 
Published  in  April,  1896. 

A  voice  went  over  the  waters — 

A  stormy  edge  of  the  sea — 
Fairest  of  Freedom's  daughters, 

Have  you  no  help  for  me? 
Do  you  not  hear  the  rusty  chain 

Clanking  about  my  feet? 
Have  you  not  seen  my  children  slain, 

Whether  in  cell  or  street? 
Oh,  if  you  were  sad  as  I, 

And  I  as  you  were  strong, 
You  would  not  have  to  call  or  cry — 

You  would  not  suffer  long! 

"Patience"? — have  I  not  learned  it, 

Under  the  crushing  years? 
Freedom — have  I  not  earned  it, 

Toiling  with  blood  and  tears? 
"Not  of  you?" — my  banners  wave 

Not  on  Egyptian  shore, 
Or  by  Armenia's  mammoth  grave — 

But  at  your  very  door! 
Oh,  if  you  were  needy  as  I, 

And  I  as  you  were  strong, 


Cuba  to  Columbia.  119 

You  should  not  suffer,  bleed,  and  die, 
Under  the  hoofs  of  wrong! 

Is  it  that  you  have  never 

Felt  the  oppressor's  hand, 
Fighting,  with  fond  endeavor, 

To  cling  to  your  own  sweet  land? 
Were  you  not  half  dismayed, 

There  in  the  century's  night, 
Till  to  your  view  a  sister's  aid 

Came,  like  a  flash  of  light? 
Oh,  what  gift  could  ever  he  grand 

Enough  to  pay  the  debt, 
If  out  of  the  starry  Western  land, 

Should  come  my  Lafayette! 


120  Songs  of  the  Nation. 


COLUMBIA  TO  CUBA. 
Written  May  21,  1902. 

A  voice  went  over  the  waters — 

The  edge  of  a  sunlit  sea — 
Newest  of  Freedom's  daughters, 

My  help  went  out  to  thee. 
Time  it  was  that  the  West  should  aid 

A  sister  of  the  West, 
When  her  own  mother's  jewelled  blade 

Was  stabbing  at  her  breast! 
Where  in  battle  my  bullets  flew 

Along  your  gallant  shore, 
Much  indeed  I  was  aiding  you — 

But  Civilization  more! 

Patience? — yes,  you  have  learned  it: 

And,  now,  'neath  Freedom's  sky, 
See  that  you  have  not  spurned  it, 

As  years  go  hurrying  by. 
Yes! — we  are  dwelling  side  by  side, 

Eeady  for  clasp  or  thrust: 
Long  may  this  friendship  be  our  pride, 

Fruiting  to  love  and  trust. 
You  to  keep  the  rescued  land 

Still  to  the  rescuer  true — 


Columbia  to  Cuba.  121 

We  to  vow  that  Tyranny's  hand 
Never  shall  fall  on  you! 

If  to  your  glance  my  starry  flame 

Looks  like  a  welcome  bright, 
Cherish  the  thought  from  which  it  came, 

In  your  ambition's  sight. 
Do  not  on  the  horizon  rest — 

Do  not  sink  below: 
Rise,  0  new-born  star  of  the  West, 

Unto  meridian  glow! 
Climb  to  OUR  constellation 

That  all  earth  awes  and  cheers, 
And — nation  within  a  nation' — 

Gleam  bright  for  a  thousand  years! 


122  Songs  of  the  Nation. 


COLLOQUY  OF  GKIEF. 

William  McKinley  dud  September  14,  1901. 

Nation  bright  with  the  sunrise-glow — 
Full  of  the  century's  throbbing — 

Why  do  you  bow  your  head  so  low? 

Why  do  we  hear  you  sobbing? 

Death  has  climbed  to  my  highest  place, 

And  tears  of  a  people  are  no  disgrace; 

Sorrow  is  better  told  than  kept; 

And  grief  is  holy,  for  God  has  wept. 

Nation  with  banner  of  oldest  birth, 
Stars  to  the  high  stars  sweeping, 

Why  have  you  not  a  flag  on  earth, 

But  to  the  half-mast  creeping? 

Many  a  brave  man  had  to  die, 

To  hold  those  colors  against  the  sky; 

Agonies  such  as  this  reveal 

That  every  banner  to  Heaven  must  kneel! 

Nation  with  tasks  that  might  appal 

Planets  of  weak  endeavor, 
Why  did  the  best  man  of  you  all 

Sail  from  your  shores  forever? 

Not  forever  and  not  from  sight, 
But  nearer  to  God's  sweet  kindly  light: 
Through  the  mists  to  a  stormless  sea, 
Where  all  the  heroes  of  ages  be. 

Nation  with  weapons  fierce  and  grim, 
Sharpen  with  rage  your  sadness: 

Tear  the  murderer  limb  from  limb — 
Torture  him  into  madness! 

No!    I  have  Heaven  too  much  in  awe, 


Colloquy  of  Grief.  123 

The  law  to  avenge  with  lack  of  law: 
Take  we  the  soul  from  its  tainted  clod, 
And  lay  it  down  at  the  feet  of  God. 

Nation  whose  love  for  home  ne'er  dies, 

Cruel  the  clouds  that  hover! 
What  do  you  say  when  a  woman  cries, 

"Give  me  my  husband-lover?" 

Sad  heart,  carry  the  grievous  wrong 
In  Faith's  own  arms;  it  will  not  be  long. 
Here,  and  in  lands  you  never  knew, 
He  more  than  ever  will  comfort  you. 

Nation  of  many  tribes  and  lands — 

Strength  of  the  world's  best  nations, 
Say!  would  a  million  murderous  hands 

Crumble  your  deep  foundations? 

Never!  no  poison  e'er  can  blight 
The  flowers  and  fruitage  of  truth  and  right; 
Never!  the  land  that  the  tyrant  fears, 
Shall  live  in  splendor  a  thousand  years! 


124  Songs  of  the  Nation. 


A  MAN  HAS  DIED. 
September  14,  1901. 

A  man  has  died — and  so  have  myriads  more — 
They  will,  while  yet  this  dying  earth  lives  on; 

But  when  a  leader  makes  the  utmost  shore, 

We  sadly  look  toward  where  his  ship  has  gone, 

And  only  get  this  message  from  the  dead: 

"Study  the  past:   my  words  have  all  been   said." 

A  woman  mourns — as  woman  always  must, 

So  long  as  joy  has  penalties  of  pain; 
How  sadly  creeps  that  sweet  soul  in  the  dust! 

And  yet  her  fearful  woe  is  not  in  vain: 
It  teaches  us  that  though  love  long  endure, 
Only  in  Heaven  its  raptures  are  secure. 


The   Victory-Wreck.  125 


THE  VICTORY- WRECK. 

0  stealthily-creeping  Merrimac, 

Hush  low  your  fiery  breath: 
You  who  gave  life  to  ships  of  strife 

Are  sailing  unto  your  death! — 
"I  arn  ready  and  dressed  for  burial, 

Beneath  the  Cuban  wave; 
But  still  I  can  fight  for  God  and  right, 

While  resting  in  my  grave!" 

0  men  that  are  sailing  the  Merrimac, 

Your  hearts  are  beating  high; 
But  send  a  prayer  through  the  smoking  air, 

To  your  Captain  in  the  sky! — 
"We  know  there  is  death  in  every  breath, 

As  we  cling  to  the  gunless  deck; 
And  grand  will  be  our  voyage,  if  we 

Can  make  of  our  ship  a  wreck!" 

Now  drop  the  bower  of  the  Merrimac, 

And  swing  her  with  the  tide. 
Now  scuttle  her,  braves,  and  bid  the  waves 

Sweep  into  her  shattered  side! — 
"Through  a  flying  hell  of  shot  and  shell, 

We  passed  Death,  with  a  sneer; 
We  wrenched  our  life  from  the  novel  strife, 

And  even  our  foemen  cheer!" 


126  Songs  of  the  Nation. 


LIBERTY'S  TORCH. 

Out  of  the  east  comes  a  maiden 

Over  the  rough  stormy  sea, 
Full  of  good  gifts  for  us  laden — 

Love  from  the  free  to  the  free. 
Now  with  her  torch  brightly  glowing, 

In  our  chief  gateway  she  stands, 
Liberty's  radiance  throwing 

Over  the  seas  and  the  lands. 

Men  by  their  firesides  wherever 

News  of  the  world  is  a  guest, 
Talk  of  the  gift  and  the  giver — 

Know  of  our  star  in  the  west. 
Even  the  ancient  defenders 

Cannot  this  symbol  forget: 
Washington  knows  of  its  splendors — 

So  does  the  proud  Lafayette. 

Tell  me,  0  well-studied  scholars 
Of  the  world's  glory  and  shame, 

Now  should  a  few  paltry  dollars 
Spoil  this  beneficent  flame? 

Ask  of  our  friends  and  our  foemen, 
Ask  of  our  hopes  and  our  doubt — - 


Liberty's  TorcJi.  127 

Can  we  withstand  the  dread  omen 
EVER  to  see  it  go  out? 

Let  not  our  colors  be  fading! 

Let  not  a  sceptre  and  crown — 
Let  not  the  triumphs  of  trading — 

Trample  our  sentiment  down! 
Ice-blooded  tyranny,  listen! 

Patriots,  we  laugh  at  your  fears! 
Liberty's  emblem  shall  glisten 

Yet  for  a  thousand  of  years! 


SONGS  OF  PLEASURE  AND  PAIN. 


FARMER  STEBBINS  AWHEEL. 

I  went  to  Brooklyn  visitin'  to  see  what  I  could  see, 

An'  twenty  thousan'  bicycles  come  rushin'  after  me; 

I  couldn't  even  cross  the  road,  or  stop  to  look  around, 

But  some  one's  wheel  was  sure  to  want  that  very  inch  of  ground; 

An'  those  at  whom  I  shook  my  fist  at  scarin'  of  me  thus 

Would  call  me  names  an'  skitter  off,  'fore  I  could  clinch  the  fuss. 

An'  some  of  them  was  double-bent,  with  noses  near  the  ground, 
As  if  their  pocketbooks  was  lost,  an'  hadn't  yet  been  found; 
An'  some  was  steamin'  'long  the  road,  in  reg'lar  engine-shape, 
As  if  they'd  stole  a  dollar-bill,  an'  wanted  to  escape; 
An'  some  was  wildly  chewin'  gum,  industrious  as  could  be, 
As  if  they'd  lately  took  a  job  to  gnaw  a  hemlock  tree; 

An'  some  had  faces  of  despair,  as  if  on  frenzy's  brink, 

An'  some  was  men  an'  some  was  boys,  an'  some  was  girls — I  think; 

An'  some  was  ladies  lady-dressed,  an'  lookin'  fine  an'  neat 

As  that  same  number  of  bouquets  a-glidin'  down  the  street; 

An'  when  a  man  about  my  size  come  ridin'  with  a  dame, 

I  says,  "If  he  can  pump  a  wheel,  then  I  can  do  the  same." 

A  little  boy  with  turn-up  nose  an'  unregenerate  eye 
Had  overheard  my  loud  remarks,  an'  told  the  followin'  lie: 
He  says  to  me,  "The  cycles  all  have  big  improvements,  now, 
An'  any  one  can  ride  'em  though  he  hasn't  first  learned  how"; 
An'  so  I  hired  a  stout  machine  from  some  one  in  a  store, 
An'  mounted  on,  an5  started  off  the  village  to  explore. 

The  snub-nose  boy  he  helped  me  up  with  all  the  strength  he  had, 
Then  give  a  push,  an'  hollered  out,  "A  pleasant  journey,  Dad!" 


132  Songs  of  Pleasure  and  Pain. 

An'  so  it  was,  a  rod  or  two;  when,  like  some  livin'  dunce, 
The  lean  an'  slippery  critter  tried  to  go  two  ways  at  once; 
An'  like  a  polertician-chap,  I  strove  to  do  the  same, 
An7  felt  the  ground  reverberate  beneath  my  massive  frame. 

I  looked  around  to  find  the  boy:  he  wasn't  nowhere  seen, 

An'  I  raised  up  the  bicycle,  a-f eelin'  rather  green; 

An'  then  I  said,  "There's  some  mistake;  I'll  try  the  thing  ag'in, 

An'  it  will  probably  behave,  when  I  have  broke  it  in." 

An'  so  I  leaped  upon  its  back,  an'  started  off  once  more; 

An'  promptly  felt  the  earth  ag'in,  through  all  the  clothes  I  wore. 

An'  then  I  sort  o'  twisted  'round,  an'  rose  into  a  rage, 

An'  started  wildly  in  once  more,  the  critter  to  engage; 

An'  hollered  loud,  so  all  the  folks  come  runnin'  'round  to  see, 

"You  little  beast,  you  think  you'll  get  the  upper  han's  of  me? 

Perhaps  you  think  a  farmer  bold  hain't  pluck  to  bring  you  down, 

That's  broke  some  thirty  colts  to  bit,  an'  half  the  mules  in  town!" 

An'  then  I  strove  for  victory,  with  all  my  varied  powers, 

For  ten  good  minutes  by  the  clock,  but  seemin'ly  for  hours; 

An'  every  time  I  made  a  move  my  mastery  to  display, 

The  little  wretch  would  twist  itself  in  some  new-fashioned  way; 

An'  sometimes  it  would  lie  an'  rest,  as  placid  as  could  be, 

Then  I'd  be  on  my  back,  an'  it  a-grinnin'  down  at  me; 

An'  then  'twould  rear  up  like  a  horse,  an'  weave  an'  twist  awhile, 

An'  I  would  stan'  upon  my  head,  in  reg'lar  circus-style; 

An'  then  'twould  kind  o'  paw  the  earth,  an'  wave  its  hinder  wheel, 

An'  I  would  turn  a  somerset,  and  give  a  frenzied  squeal; 

Until  at  last  I  laid  amongst  a  million  laughin'  folks, 

My  head  upon  a  pavin'-stone — my  legs  between  some  spokes; 

An'  shouted,  as  I  give  my  neck  a  slow  an'  painful  turn, 

"Bring  me  that  snub-nose  boy  that  said  we  didn't  have  to  learn! 

Give  me  the  man  that  first  among  a  trustin'  people  came 

An'  set  at  large  this  dang'rous  beast  with  'Safety*  for  its  name! 

I'll  whip  'em  with  each  other  in  as  good  a  shape,  you'll  see, 

As  this  'ere  bunch  of  metal  bones  has  threshed  the  earth  with  me!" 


The  Funeral-Express.  133 


THE  FUNERAL-EXPRESS. 

See  what  from  the  town  approaches, 
With  its  stately  line  of  coaches, 
With  its  engine- jewels  gleaming 
In  the  sunlight  o'er  them  streaming: 

"Tis  the  funeral-train! 
In  its  rooms  so  swiftly  flying, 
There  are  hundreds  slowly  dying: 
Yet  they  mark  with  curious  pity 
Some  who  in  the  painless  city 

Will  forget  their  pain. 

In  those  halls  so  swiftly  flying, 
There  is  moaning,  there  is  crying, 
For  the  wreckage  that  reposes 
'"Neath  the  lilies  and  the  roses 

Of   the  funeral-train. 
Some  are  leisure-hours  "beguiling, 
Unaware,  amid  their  smiling, 
Of  the  burials  of  the  morrow, 
That  will  rush  with  equal  sorrow, 

Through  their  heart  and  brain! 

In  that  hearse  so  swiftly  flying, 
Is  an  old  man,  meekly  lying; 
Eighty  harvests  fell  upon  him, 
Ere  the  silent  sickle  won  him 

From  the  standing  grain; 
And,  with  frozen  smile  and  dimple, 
Lies  a  babe,  divinely  simple, 
Who,  before  this  world  discerning, 
Found  itself  to  God  returning, 

With  no  earthly  stain. 


134  Songs  of  Pleasure  and  Pain. 

In  that  tomb  so  swiftly  flying, 
Is  a  face  the  world  defying, 
Manhood's  guise,  in  beastly  fashion: 
Just  a  page  of  reckless  passion 

Love  implored  in  vain; 
And  a  girlish  one  of  sweetness, 
Yet  with  womanhood's  completeness, 
And  a  semblance  always  thrilling, 
Death  could  not  succeed  in  killing, 

When  her  heart  was  slain. 

In  that  crypt  so  swiftly  flying, 
Now  a  marble  mansion  nighing, 

Is  a  corse  arrayed  in  splendor — 
Wealth  its  pitiful  defender, 

Death  a  doubtful  gain; 
And  another  that  must  grovel 
In  The  Acre's  humblest  hovel, 
Yet  with  tears  and  sorrow  nigh  him 
Such  as  money  ne'er  could  buy  him, 

Shares  the  funeral-train. 

Now  this  throng  of  strange  appearing 
Death's  wide  palace-door  is  nearing: 
With  his  subjects  round  him  lying, 
Only  earthly  king  undying, 

Long  has  been  his  reign! 
Pride  and  power  cannot  ignore  him; 
All  must  cast  themselves  before  him; 
Journeys,  whether  mean  or  splendid, 
Shall  forever  here  be  ended: 

Stop  the  funeral-train. 


Took  Johnnie  to  the  Show.  135 


TOOK  JOHNNIE   TO   THE   SHOW. 

Poor  little  Johnnie  longed  to  go 

And  see  the  show; 

Like  any  simple  trusting  lad 

Who  viewed  the  walls  in  pictures  clad, 

Of  men  who  lived  on  horses'  backs, 

Or  climbed  each  other's  heads  in  stacks, 

Or  drivelled  dressed  in  stripes  and  spots, 

Or  tied  themselves  in  double  knots, 

Or  metamorphosed  into  wheels, 

Or  swung  each  other  by  the  heels, 

Or,  placid,  led  unblemished  lives 

Amid  a  fusillade  of  knives, 

Or  punched  the  lion  while  he  roared, 

Or  with  their  heads  his  mouth  explored: — 

You  would  yourself  have  longed  to  go 

And  see  the  show! 

Then  Johnnie's  father  said,  "Although 
I  loathe,  abhor,  and  hate  the  show, 
I  feel  that  little  John  should  go, 

The  curious  animals  to  see; 
'Twould  never  do — so  little  grown — 
For  him  to  wander  round  alone: 

My  little  boy  shall  go  with  me." 
And   Johnnie's   mother — prudent   dame — 
And  Johnnie's  auntie,  felt  the  same; 
And  Johnnie's  Uncle  Lemuel, 
His  second  cousin,  Samuel, 
His  older  sister,  Mary, 
And  Susan  Ann  and  Sarah, 


136  Songs  of  Pleasure  and  Pain. 

His  brother  and  his  brotherinlaw, 
His  father's  cautious  motherinlaw, 
And  others,  went  along  with  him 
To  see  that  nought  was  wrong  with  him; 
'Twas  not  a  sin  to  take,  you  know, 
Poor  Johnnie  to  the  show! 

As  any  one  might  be  afraid, 
'Twas  very  hard,  with  all  this  aid, 

For  little  John  to  see  the  show. 
They  hustled  him,  they  jostled  him, 

They  pulled  him  to  and  fro; 
When  one  of  them  would  chance  to  see 
A  knot  of  friends,  then  he  or  she 
Would  grasp  the  urchin  by  the  hand, 
So  all  the  world  would  understand 
That  they  had  simply  come,  you  know, 

With  Johnnie  to  the  show. 
And  Johnnie's  heart  was  breaking, 
His  lengthened  arms  were  aching, 
His  pulse  was  wildly  throbbing, 
His  little  breath  was  sobbing, 
When  with  a  new  and  different  ache 

In  every  separate  toe, 
He  lay  at  night — in  his  own  charge — 

A  dreary  poor  and  lonely  one, 

And  murmured,  "I'm  the  only  one 
Of  all  the  family,  small  or  large, 

That  didn't  see  the  show!" 


38 1.  137 


381. 

Who  is  this  man  they  bury  today, 

Out  of  the  cheerful  sun? 
"He  was  a  'cop/  "  I  heard  them  say; 
"That  was  his  number,  by  the  way— 

381." 

That  is  his  helmet,  on  the  pall, 

There  is  his  belt,  undone; 
There  is  a  wreath  of  flowers  let  fall- 
Making  just  three  figures  in  all— 

381. 

There  is  a  medal  on  his  breast, 
For  some  brave  deed  done; 

Still,  he  was  not  of  fame  possessed; 

He  was  only,  at  worst  and  best, 
381. 

Stopped  a  horse,  once,  running  away, 

Saved  a  wife  and  son; 
It  was  remembered  half  a  day; 
"Only  his  duty,"  I  heard  them  say; 

"381." 

Rushed  up  into  a  house  one  night 

(Danger  ne'er  to  shun); 
Dragged  three  children  into  sight, 
Out  of  the  fire;  yes,  that  was  right, 

381! 

Clubbed  a  man,  one  day,  half  dead 
(People  said  "for  fun"); 


138  Songs  of  Pleasure  and  Pain. 

Still,  there  was  this  much  to  be  said: 
He  came  near  being  stabbed  instead — 
381. 

Yes,  he  had  faults!  and  such  as  might 
Your  pure  excellence  stun; 

But  he  was  perfect  in  a  fight; 

When  in  trouble  you  loved  to  sight 
381! 

Always  sought  and  called-for  first, 

When  there  was  risk  to  run; 
Asked  for  his  best  amid  the  worst — 
When  it  was  over,  often  cursed, 
381! 

Still,  some  threads  of  love  and  glee 

Into  his  days  were  spun; 
He  had  a  wife  and  children  three — 
And  they  weep  for  him,  as  we  see — 
381! 

And  he  had  comrades,  as  have  you — 

Willingly  foe  to  none; 
And  they  are  out,  once  more  to  view 
Him  that  to  them  was  ever  true — 
381. 

Under  the  Great  Chief  let  him  trust, 

In  the  new  life  begun; 
Soul  to  soul,  and  dust  to  dust, 
And  a  God  that  is  ever  just — 
Now  that  his  work  is  done. 


To  the  Czar.  139 


TO  THE  CZAR. 

Strange  king,  who  in  a  golden  cradle  lying, 
Awoke  one  morn  'mid  battle-banners  Hying, 
And  wept  beneath  a  wealth  of  princely  naming, 
And  heard  the  cannon's  death-hoarse  voice  proclaim 

ing 

Joy,  that  in  spite  of  sly  rebellion's  malice, 
The  stork  had  wandered  safely  to  the  palace, 
You,  who  amid  your  childhood  fancies  dreaming, 
Were  guarded  by  the  musket-dagger's  gleaming, 
Whose  coronation's  unpreceded  splendors 
Were  in  a  camp  of  battle-trained  defenders  — 
Accept  a  Yankee  scribe's  congratulations 
(Least  from  the  grandest  of  the  Western  nations), 
And  let  him  say  (who  has  no  cause  to  fear  you, 
And  who  would  talk  the  same  words,  were  he  near 

you; 

And  look  you  in  the  eye  —  that  prince  of  senses— 
With  western  ease  as  to  the  consequences), 

Strange  king,  you  have  as  authors  term  it  lately, 
Struck  a  new  vein;  and  we  admire  you  greatly. 
Still,  not  the  newness  of  your  proclamation, 
But  its  strange  plan  —  enkindles  admiration; 
The  thriftiest  Quaker  that  may  now  adore  you 
Preached  your  new  sermon,  years  and  years  before 


The  absent  soldier's  yearning  wife  or  mother 
Has  seldom  had  a  heart  for  any  other; 
The  bravest  captain  of  our  time  was  praying 
For  peace,  while  yet  his  thousands  grimly  slaying; 
E'en  tyrants  offer  peace  on  one  condition  — 


140  Songs  of  Pleasure  and  Pain. 

The  patriot's  perfect  and  abject  submission; 

But  you,  strange  Czar,  have  asked  the  nations  whether 

They  cannot  live  and  strive  in  peace  together, 

A  hymn  of  love  in  varied  language  singing 

And  the  millennium  to  our  doorways  bringing. 

0  that  the  world  may  be  the  proud  possessor 
Of  such,  from  warlike  Vladimir's  successor! 
From  one  who  e'en  amid  his  childhood-stories 
Was  led  among  the  camps  of  martial  glories! 
Who  heard  how,  with  devoted  men  around  him, 
The  Donskoi  crushed  a  fourfold  yoke  that  bound 

him; 

Of  Ivan,  who  in  unity  delighting 
Made  Eussia  peaceful  by  the  fiercest  fighting! 
Of  Peter,  great  with  selfness  and  devotion, 
Who  fought  and  won  a  gateway  to  the  ocean! 
Of  Catherine,  who  with  martial  tribulations 
Forced  Poland  to  become  a  serf  of  nations! 
Of  Moscow — city  which,  its  star  at  nadir — 
With  costly  firebrands  froze  the  French  invader; 
Of  Nicholas,  who,  scheming  despot  branded, 
Fought  three  united  nations  single-handed! 

Here  is  a  story,  famed  in  many  dwellings, 

We  both  have  heard — though  far  apart  the  tellings: 

There  lived  a  rich  man,  weary,  sad,  and  sated, 

For  whom,  unborn,  the  floods  of  wealth  had  waited; 

He  ploughed  a  golden  sea  without  endeavor, 

But  comfort's  shore  seemed  out  of  view  forever, 

Until,  the  dictates  of  his  heart  defying, 

He  sent  Pride's  banner  to  the  topmast  flying, 

And  sailed,  with  misery  throbbing  for  confession, 

Among  the  palace-isles  of  his  possession. 

Now,  one  day,  when  the  air  was  clear  and  tender, 

He  gazed  into  the  sky's  far-distant  splendor, 

And  felt  it  might  be  ranked  among  the  pleasures, 

If  he  could  add  Heaven's  wealth  unto  his  treasures. 

So,  soon,  a  thorny  rocky  headland  reaching, 


To  the  Czar.  141 

Where  Heaven's  young  prince  the  multitude  was 

teaching, 
He  asked  Heaven's  price.     The  answer's  soul  is  liv 

ing: 
"Give  all  thou  hast,  and  never  cease  thy  giving." 

If  you,  odd  Czar,  Heaven's  peace  for  earth  are  ask 

ing, 
And  would  that  all  beneath  God's  smile  were  bask 

ing, 

If  you  would  gild  the  lot  of  prince  and  peasant, 
And  purchase  Heaven  to  make  our  race  a  present, 
Not  only  mind  this  mandate  to  the  letter, 
But  to  the  spirit  —  which  is  vastly  better. 
Upon  the  gathered  pride  of  centuries  trample, 
And  set  all  men  a  Christ-endowed  example: 
Wait  not  an  hour  for  other  king  or  nation, 
But  feed  your  guns  to  one  great  conflagration; 
Burn  all  the  warlike  flags  that  gleam  about  you; 
Let  not  the  waiting  world  a  moment  doubt  you; 
Turn  all  your  splendors  into  humble  kindness, 
And  succor  human  want  and  woe  and  blindness; 
Let  only  your  own  friendliness  befriend  you; 
And  though  there  may  be  those  who  turn  and  rend 


And  though  your  dynasty  may  fall  and  crumble, 
And  though  you  walk  the  world  abject  and  humble, 
And  though  ingratitude  with  pain  may  fill  you, 
And  though,  alas!    the  world  should  turn  and   kill 


One  life  for  millions  were  a  thrifty  barter; 
And  God's  most  glorious  plans  require  a  martyr. 


142  Songs  of  Pleasure  and  Pain. 


TO  FANNY  CEOSBY. 

Blind  Hymn-Poet,  Aged  Eighty. 

Song-bird  in  the  dark, 
Adding  each  day  unto  our  lyric  treasure, 

And  rising,  like  the  lark, 
Nearer  to  heaven  for  each  ecstatic  measure: 

Sing  on,  0  rich,  clear  voice, 
'Mid  the  world's  clamor  for  the  world's  possession; 

Thou  art  the  angels'  choice 
To  give  their  sweetest  anthems  earth-expression! 

Love  on,  0  gentle  heart, 
To  all  mankind  with  stately  pureness  clinging; 

The  followers  of  thy  art, 
With  lips  devout  caress  thee  in  their  singing! 

In  myriad  temples  grand, 

Through  whose  broad  aisles  the  organ-tones  are  peal 
ing, 

Thy  words  walk  hand  in  hand 
With  truths  the  rich-bound  Bible  is  revealing. 

By  many  a  cottage-door, 
Where  Faith  and  Love  with  Poverty  are  dwelling, 

Thy  sweet  words,  o'er  and  o'er, 
The  mother  to  her  new-found  babe  is  telling. 

Where  Arctic  snow-storms  sweep, 
Where  tropic  ghosts  a  hand  to  death  are  reaching, 

Thy  jewelled  words  still  keep 
Their  tryst  with  God,  and  aid  His  solemn  teaching. 


To  Fanny  Crosby. 

Song-bird  in  the  light, 

Thou  shalt  see    splendors    when    this    world's  have 
faded! 

E'en  now  thy  path  is  bright 
With  stars  in  heaven  whose  kindling  thou  hast  aided. 

Yearn  on,  0  lofty  soul, 
Though  voices  from  the  song-land  intercede  thee! 

Spurn  not  this  earth's  control 
Yet  many  years:   our  suffering  mortals  need  thee. 

But  when  at  last  The  King 
Shall  bid  thy  friends  above  to  cease  their  waiting, 

The  angels,  sure,  will  sing, 
To  welcome  thee,  some  hymn  of  thy  creating. 

And  Christ  will  be  thy  guide, 
Confirming,  step  by  step,  his  wondrous  story; 

And  seek  the  Father's  side, 
And  say,  "She  taught  the  world  to  sing  thy  glory." 


143 


144  Songs  of  Pleasure  and  Pain. 


THE   MAIDEN-MOTHER. 

Under  a  Picture  of  the  Madonna. 

Fair  maiden-mother! — whom-to  do  you  pray? — 
Not  to  a  far-off  God,  in  pity  hearing 
Proud  prayers  through  smoke  of  sacrifice  appearing, 
And  brazen  bugle-songs  from  mouths  of  clay, 
And  priests  the  altars  fatten  day  by  day; 

But  to  the  child — half  loving  it,  half  fearing — 
Who  brings  with  him  from  yonder  star-floored  place, 
Heaven  as  a  present  to  the  human  race. 

Child  of  all  nations! — has  the  soul  within  thee 
Yet  told  the  body  of  its  destined  path? 
How  it  must  walk  through  flames  of  human  wrath, 

How  frantic  rage  to  agonies  will  pin  thee, 

And  fallen  angels  will  reach  up  to  win  thee; 
How  thou  must  reap  Sin's  dreary  aftermath, 

And,  clasping  to  thy  heart  man's  only  loss, 

Eclipse  it  with  the  glory  of  the  cross? 


The  Old  Church-Bell.  145 


THE    OLD    CHURCH-BELL. 

We  walk  to  church  along  the  olden  way, 
We  drink  of  peace  from  out  the  Sabbath  Day; 
The  worldly  chain  has  loosed  its  links  of  care, 
The  cry  of  trade  has  vanished  from  the  air; 
E'en  yonder  clouds  that  gather  at  the  west 
Seem  templed  halls  for  worship  and  for  rest. 
But  silences  awake  us  from  our  spell: 

For  we  have  lost  the  old  church-bell — 
That  through  the  miles  could  send  a  magic  voice, 
And  summon  men  to  sorrow  and  rejoice. 

We  saw  the  bride  upon  her  blossomed  way — 
With  heart  that  beat  to  echoes  sadly-gay, 
With  all  the  past  a  dream  beneath  her  sight — 
With  all  the  future  full  of  visions  bright. 
Oh  blithe  it  was,  to  bow  the  comely  head 
At  altars  where  her  parents  once  were  wed! 
And  yet  a  silence  on  her  spirits  fell: 

She  did  not  hear  the  old  church -bell 
Rejoice  to  know  the  gladness  she  had  found, 
And  throw  to  her  its  golden  gift  of  sound. 

The  sainted  chief  will  enter  here  no  more; 
In  coffined  garb  he  leaves  the  sacred  door. 
Now  they  have  wept  around  his  solemn  rest, 
And,  sobbing,  sung  the  hymns  he  loved  the  best; 

10 


146  Songs  of  Pleasure  and  Pain. 

And  gifted  tongues  have  joined  in  friendly  strife 
To  coin  in  words  the  richness  of  his  life. 
But  he  has  missed  his  most  befitting  knell: 

They  could  not  toll  the  old  church-bell — 
That  greeted  him  with  pure  and  single  tongue, 
And  brooded  o'er  him  when  he  prayed  or  sung. 

The  temple's  ways  are  marching  with  the  times; 
And  now  the  gilded  steeple  sings  its  chimes. 
And  sweet  it  is,  upon  a  morning  fair, 
To  hear  our  hymns  go  floating  through  the  air! 
And  oft  they  reach  the  sick  one  in  his  bed, 
And  oft  pursue  the  sinner  that  hath  fled; 
But  'twas  not  needful,  and  it  was  not  well, 

To  take  away  the  old  church-bell — 
For  long  it  stayed,  a  true  though  lofty  friend, 
And  might  have  been  our  comrade  to  the  end. 


Monologue  of  Pain.  147 


MONOLOGUE  OF  PAIN. 

I  am  the  angel,  soft-hearted  Pain. 

I  watch  over  mortals  as  mothers  might  do — 
I  guard  them,,  I  keep  them,  I  plan  for  their  gain; 

My  warning  is  speedy — my  judgment  is  true. 
I  stand  at  the  door  where  the  death-hound,  Disease, 

Hot-crazy  for  blood,  has  just  scented  his  prey; 
I  rush  to  the  victim  he  hastens  to  seize — 
I  wake  him,  I  warn  him,  I  bid  him  Away! 
I  am  the  angel— 
The  dark-hued  evangel- 
Bringing  the  good  news  of  danger  to  men; 
They  who  will  heed  me 
Seldom  may  need  me; 
Soon  I  return  to  my  watchtower  again. 

I  am  the  devil,  red-handed  Pain. 

I  hang  over  mortals  when  helpless  they  lie; 
I  stab  them,  I  rack  them,  I  rend  them  in  twain, 

Till,  wearied  with  anguish,  they  pray  they  may  die. 
I  lurk  where  the  battle's  red  banner  appears, 

I  poison  the  wounds,  and  I  follow  the  blows; 
I  torture  the  fallen,  and  laugh  at  their  tears; 


148  Songs  of  Pleasiire  and  Pain. 

For  I  am  the  cruellest,  fiercest  of  foes. 

I  am  a  devil — 

A  symbol  of  evil — 
Feasting  my  fury  on  sorrows  of  men; 

Not  till  Death  snatches 

My  prey  from  my  clutches, 
Will  I  return  to  my  comfortless  den. 

I  am  the  monitor,  chastening  Pain. 

I  punish  the  mortals  who  do  themselves  wrong, 
I  bind  them,  I  beat  them,  I  leave  them  my  stain; 

My  vengeance  is  certain — my  patience  is  long. 
I  dull  the  keen  edge  of  their  luckless  desire, 

I  give  them  true  words  they  may  cherish  alway; 
I  burn  in  their  memory  symbols  of  fire, 

To  warn  them  and  hold  them  from  going  astray. 
Over  the  portals 
That  open  for  mortals, 
Into  the  Edens  where  serpents  creep  low, 
Cherubim,  aiming 
Their  trusty  blades  flaming, 
Place  I,  that  mortals  their  dangers  may  know. 


Bicycle-So  ng.  140 


BICYCLE-SONG. 

Oh,  Bessie  has  bought  her  a  bonnet  of  red, 

And  started  afoot  for  the  ball; 
She  never  was  minding  a  word  that  I  said, 

Or  looking  about  for  my  call! 

Quit  mourning,  quit  mourning,  good  Mother,  I  say: 
She  maybe  will  linger  to  talk  on  the  way: 
Pll  follow  the  truant  as  well  as  I  may, 

And  catch  her,  whatever  befall. 

Oh,  Bessie  has  bought  her  a  bonnet  of  blue, 

And  started  to  ride  to  the  ball; 
She's  taken  the  speediest  horse  that  she  knew, 

The  swiftest  that  stood  in  the  stall! 
Quit  mourning,  good  Mother,  it  might  have  been 

worse; 

There's  many  a  mount  that  is  better  than  hers; 
I'll  follow  her  closely  with  saddle  and  purse, 

And  catch  her,  whatever  befall. 

Oh,  Bessie  has  bought  her  a  coat  and  a  cap, 

And  started  to  wheel  to  the  ball; 
With  only  a  bit  of  a  skirt  for  a  lap, 

And  bloomers  distressingly  small! 
Keep  mourning,  good  Mother:  your  sobbings  repeat; 
For  whether  her  going  be  tardy  or  fleet, 
I  never  should  know  her,  if  her  I  should  meet: 

We're  lucky  to  catch  her  at  all! 


150  Songs  of  Pleasure  and  Pain. 


DE   TEMPERACHEWER. 

Fin  an  enterprisin'  porter 

Of  the   Pennsylvani'   Line; 
An'  I  like  it,  an5  I  orter, 

Fur  de  business  chance  is  fine; 
But  in  journeys  long  or  shorter, 

Dere  is  somethin'  to  endure; 
An'  de  worst  is,  hearing  "Porter, 

Can't  you  change  the  temperachewer?" 
An'  I  punch  de  little  window, 

An'  I  pull  it  back  an'  forth, 
For  to  satisfy  the  Hindoo, 

An'  de  people  of  'de  North. 

Den  a  Texas  Cuhnel  want  to 

Hab  me  closin'  of  de  hole, 
An'  a  parsdn  from  Toronto 

Say  he's  burnin'  to  a  coal; 
An'  a  maiden  in  a  sorter 

Alto  accent,  sof  an'  pure, 
Chirrups  up,  an'  warbles,  "Porter, 

Caun't  you  change  the  temperachewer?" 
An'  I  go  an'  fix  de  heater, 

Or  pretend  to,  fur  a  while, 
An'  her  darlin'  face  is  sweeter, 

An'  she  tips  me — (wid  a  smile). 


De  Temper ac hewer.  151 

Then  a  gentleman's  on  hand,  w'ich 

Wants  to  take  a  Pullman  fill, 
An'  an  egg-cup  an'  a  sandwich 

Nearly  bu'sts  a  dollar-bill; 
An'  I  think  I'll  reap  a  quarter; 

But  de  matter  isn't  sure, 
Fur  some  fool  '11  holler  "Porter,, 

Caun't  you  change  the  temperachewer?" 
An'  my  man  starts  like  a  rocket, 

An'  ho  shivers  through  an'  through, 
An'  dat  quarter  in  his  pocket 

Sinks  forevermore  from  view. 

I  suppose  that  some  poor  feller, 

In  de  various  bye-an'-bye, 
When  de  bad  folks  seek  de  cellar, 

An'  de  good  is  in  do  sky, 
Some  oP  sinful  railroad  sportcr, 

Wid  a  burn  he  cannot  cure, 
Will  be  hollerin'  "Porter!  Porter! 

Caun't  you  change  the  temperachewer?" 
Dey  may  press  de  knob — dose  clippers — • 

But  no  porter  '11  do  the  rest; 
We'll  be  brushin'  golden  slippers 

In  de  Pullmans  of  de  blest. 


152  Songs  of  Pleasure  and  Pain. 


ALWAYS    A    "KICK." 

Farmer,  how  was  your  wheat  this  year? — 

Thrifty  of  stalk  and  head; 
Plump  of  kernel  and  cleanly  grown: 
Better  than  any  I  ever  have  known: — 

The  smiling  farmer  said. 

How  was  your  crop  of  corn  this  year, 

Marketed,  floured,  or  fed? 
Sleek  and  thick  and  yellow  as  gold, 
And  never  a  frost  till  the  season  was  old: — 

The  smiling  farmer  said. 

How  are  your  oats  and  barley  and  rye, 

Your  apples  of  green  and  red? 
How  did  the  hay  and  potatoes  thrive? 
Never  better  since  man  was  alive: — 

The  candid  farmer  said. 

Farmer,  what  was  the  guerdon  you  gained 

For  crops  that  you  marketed? 
Prices  stood  at  the  very  top, 
And  beckoned  and  beckoned  for  every  crop: — 

The  smiling  farmer  said. 

Then  you  have  nothing  to  grumble  about, 

But  praise  and  rejoice  instead! — 
Well,  but  then  you  must  understand, 
Such  crops  draw  terribly  on  the  land  ! 

The  grumbling  farmer  said. 


The  Convict  and  the  Stars.  153 


THE  CONVICT  AND  THE  STABS. 

"Twas  a  cold  clear  winter  evening,  with  the  snow-wreaths  drifted  deep, 

And  a  man  whose  hair  was  snow-white  lay  upon  his  couch  asleep; 

Lay  in  slumber  sad  and  restless,  as  in  talk  with  some  one  near 

He  could  only  see  in  glimpses,  and  could  seldom  feel  or  hear. 

Not  on  down-upholstered  pillows,  or  'neath  Lroidered  counterpane, 

Such  as  often  grace  the  evening  of  a  life  of  toil  and  gain; 

Not  mid  walls  of  pictured  splendor  with  the  brush's  memory  rife; 

Not  mid  textures  from  the  fingers  of  a  daughter  or  a  wife; 

-But  within  a  cell's  close  borders  to  be  portioned,  was  his  lot; 

And  the  couch  on  which  he  rested  was  a  dingy  prison^cot. 

Comes  the  clanging  of  a  key-bolt — swings  the  door  more  grim  than  wide 

And  the  prison-surgeon  marches  to  the  wakened  sufferer's  side. 

*kYou  are  ailing,  they  have  told  me.    'Tis  the  convict's  usual  song." 

"I  am  ailing,''  said  the  old  man,  "but  will  not  be,  very  long. 

Will  you  listen  to  my  story?"    Then  the  calloused  surgeon  said: 

"Of  such  matters  1  am  weary;  let  me  feel  your  pulse  instead." 

"I  am  innocent." — "Yes,  maybe;  that  is  e'er  the  prisoner's  creed; 

1  have  never  talked  with  convict,  but  some  other  did  the  deed." 

"Nay,  but  listen!    I  have  just  heard  one  whose  days  were  full  of  strife, 

On  his  death-bed  own  the  murder  that  has  murdered  all  my  life! 

Yes,  the  law  forbore  to  hang  me,  but  it  crucified  instead; 

It  has  nailed  me  to  this  prison,  as  it  will  till  I  am  dead. 

And  tomorrow  comes  a  'pardon';  'tis  a  way  the  statutes  run, 

That  the  Governor  can  forgive  me  for  a  crime  I  n'er  have  done. 

Yes,  tomorrow  comes  the  'pardon';  but  'twill  enter  over-late; 

Long  before  'tis  here  to  seek  me,  I'll  have  passed  the  prison-gate." 

Then  the  callous-hearted  surgeon,  holding  still  the  prisoner's  hand, 

Said,  "How  you  foretell  this  pardon,  I  can  never  understand. 

How  you  know  what  now  is  passing  at  a  bedside  out  of  view, 

Is  a  question;  but  I  somehow  feel  the  vision  may  be  true!" 

Then  the  convict  said,  "Pray,  listen;  I've  a  wife  and  children  three; 


154  Songs  of  Pleasure  and  Pain. 

They  have  passed  the  mystic  boundaries;  they  have  gone  ahead  of  me. 
No  great  wonder  that  the  villain  who  condemned  me,  I  condemn; 
For  the  sentence  ere  it  killed  me,  used  its  power  to  murder  them. 
Sometimes,  now,  I  see  them  plainly — then  the  darkness  steps  between; 
And  I  doubt  that  I  have  viewed  them,  and  my  sorrow  grows  more  keen. 
Surgeon,  may  I  ask  a  favor? — 'tis  the  last  I  seek  of  you: 
I  would  find  a  southern  window,  where  the  best  stars  are  in  view — 
Those  bright  stars  my  wife  and  children  conned  with  me,  and  loved  so 

well- 
Stars  I  have  not  seen  for  long  years — from  my  grated  prison-cell. 
I  have  known  such  rank  injustice — such  perversions  of  God's  right, 
That  I  almost  fear  that  God's  stars  have  been  blotted  from  the  sight!" 

"Take  him  to  a  southern  chamber!" — stalwart  men  in  stripes  obeyed; 

By  a  large  and  lofty  window  carefully  the  couch  was  laid. 

"They  are  there!"  he  loudly  shouted  as  they  streamed  into  his  sight; 

And  the  prisoner  in  his  gladness  rose  within  the  bed  upright. 

"There  the  evening  star  is  gleaming,  as  it  was  serene  and  true, 

When  upon  her  father's  doorstone  oft  we  watched  it  out  of  view; 

There  the  Pleiades  are  shining,  as,  when  days  of  toil  were  done, 

We  oft  wondered  if  God's  palace  was  within  that  brightest  one. 

There  Aldebaran  is  burning;  oft  my  children  used  to  cry, 

lie  is  driving  his  gold  harrow  through  the  blue  fields  of  the  sky!' 

Still  the  mighty  wheels  of  Heaven  draw  the  universe's  cars; 

Still  I  see  the  great  Orion — mighty  hunter — man  of  stars; 

And  the  orb  of  orbs,  proud  Sirius,  struggles  up  the  hollow  sky, 

As  he  did  when  we  were  watching  in  the  sweet  days  long  gone  by. 

God  is  good!    his  laws  are  changeless;  though  oft  hidden  from  our  view, 

Yet  when  bars  and  clouds  have  vanished,  they  flash  out  and  gleam  anew! 

"Who  are  these  that  stand  beside  me? — who  are  these  I  feel  and  see? — 
Wife  and  children,  you  are  with  me — you  have  come  at  last  for  me! 
Farewell  sorrow,  pain,  and  misery;  farewell  bolts  and  prison-bars: 
I  am  ready  to  go  with  you  on  your  pathway  'mongst  the  stars!" 

Stalwart  men  in  stripes  with  reverence  bore  a  body  through  the  door; 
On  the  morrow  came  the  "pardon";  but  release  had  come  before. 


NOTES. 


"The  Eclipse"— page  28.  The  total  eclipse  of  the  sun  which  occurred  May  28, 
1900,  was  one  of  the  grandest  spectacles  ever  presented  in  our  stupendous  pano 
rama  of  the  sky.  No  town  within  the  belt  of  its  influence,  but  turned  out  a 
good  share  of  its  population  to  watch  the  grand  event.  Industry  throughout 
our  country  was  for  those  few  impressive  minutes  almost  at  a  standstill,  and 
the  whole  population  became  astronomers.  It  is  singular  that  a  thousand  other 
grand  phenomena— constantly  taking  place  in  the  heavens,  and  foretold  as  sure 
ly  as  was  this— are  viewed  by  the  great  multitude  of  people,  with  entire  indiffer 
ence — or  not  noticed  at  all. 

A  story  which  I  still  roll  as  a  very  pleasant  morsel  under  my  tongue,  is  that 
of  a  fine  old  gentleman  in  Pennsylvania  who  had  read,  sixty  years  before,  that 
the  eclipse  was  to  take  place  at  a  certain  hour  and  minute.  For  the  whole  sixty 
years  the  question  remained  in  his  mind,  as  to  whether  the  event  would  really 
take  place  as  predicted  by  the  votaries  of  science.  Would  the  earth  and  sun 
both  be  exactly  on  time?  Would  not  something  happen,  as  so  often  with  man's 
goings  and  comings,  to  prevent  the  accomplishment?  Might  not  "the  best  laid 
plans"  of  the  universe  "gang  a-gley"?  Oh,  if  he  could  only  live  till  the  moment 
at  which  the  eclipse  was  predicted! 

He  did.  He  journeyed  into  the  belt  of  totality,  and  stood  with  watch  in 
hand,  on  a  bright,  sunstrewn  day,  wondering  if  the  prediction  would  come  true. 

It  did:  and  he  went  home  one  of  the  happiest  men  on  the  earth. 


"Funeral-Trains  of  Forest-Trees"— page  73.  This  line  refers  to  the  rafts  of 
logs  that  are  each  season  taken  down  the  St.  Lawrence  River.  They  are 
very  striking  and  picturesque,  with  broad  expanses  of  fallen  trees,  lashed  se 
curely  together,  and  suggesting  great  floating  islands  of  wood. 


"Then  I  sailed  away  a  distance  in  my  double-p'inted  skift"— page  77.  The  St. 
Lawrence  River  skiff  is  pointed  at  both  ends,  and  will  run  one  way  as  well  as 
the  other.  It  is  admirably  adapted  for  rowing,  sailing,  fishing,  or  hunting;  and 
no  other  kind  would  generally  be  seen  upon  that  river,  in  a  day's  journey. 
The  oarsman's  dialect  invariably  refers  to  it  as  a  "skift." 


"An*  my  gracious  them  fer  fishes  was  a-eatln'  cake  an*  pie!"— page  77.    One 
fisherman  whom  the  author  remembers,  used  often  to  make  this  complaint:  and 


156  Notes. 

on  such  occasions,  would  wait  patiently  till  the  fish  became  hungry  again: 
when  he  generally  succeeded  in  hauling  them  into  his  boat,  in  most  approved 
style. 

"Anyhow,  the  rich  New  Yorkers"— page  78.  Not  only  New  Yorkers,  but 
people  from  other  localities  in  different  parts  of  the  world,  have  been  known  to 
surreptitiously  purchase  fish,  with  which  to  make  a  good  showing  of  their 
prowess  when  they  returned  to  their  homes  or  hotel,  at  night. 


"Several   things   that   Markham's   fool" — page   80,   refers   to   the   poem,    "The 
Man   with  the   Hoe"— an  admirably  written,  but  deplorably  misleading  poem. 


"To  the  Mountain  Profile" — page  85.  This  magnificent  freak  of  nature,  fa 
mous  everywhere  as  "The  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain",  is  well  known  to  those 
who  have  frequented  the  Franconia  Range.  It  is  situated  twelve  hundred 
feet  above  the  vantage-ground,  from  which  it  is  best  viewed — the  profile  bearing 
an  extraordinary  resemblance  to  a  human  face  (though  not  of  the  most  re 
fined  character).  The  great  rocks  which  compose  it  are  forty  feet  from  the  top 
of  the  chin  to  the  crown,  and  are  wide  in  about  the  right  proportion  for  a  hu 
man  face.  The  rock  comprising  forehead,  mouth,  and  chin,  are  several  feet 
apart:  and  there  is  no  rese'mblance  to  the  human  face  in  a  front  view  of  them. 

This  great  mountain-sculpture  creates  different  impressions  in  different 
minds:  and  an  attempt  has  been  made  in  the  two  poems  ("To  the  Mountain 
Profile"  and  "To  the  Same"),  to  depict  the  two  extremes  of  these. 


"Some  Country  Solace" — page  90.  This  poem  was  written  "in  the  mind" 
one  morning  while  in  a  hotel  in  the  Catskill  Mountains.  The  author  was  trying 
to  get  an  early  morning  nap — and  was  cheated  out  of  it  by  some  of  the  sounds 
which  he  mentions. 


"Shall  I  leave  this  man  behind  me  in  the  hope  to  save  my  life?" — page  94. 
The  author,  having  gone  thus  far,  has  always  been  unable  to  extricate  the  young 
people  from  their  predicament,  without  drowning  one  or  both  of  them.  Several 
hundred  sequels  to  the  poem  have  been  written  by  people  in  different  parts  of 
the  country,  suggesting  various  methods:  but  few  of  them  were  at  all  logical, 
or  satisfactory. 


"New  England's  Home-Call" — page  101.  Within  a  few  years,  there  has  been 
quite  generally  adopted  in  the  New  England  states,  the  beautiful  custom  of 
holding  "Old  Home  Days" — in  which  a  reunion  is  held,  of  residents,  former 
residents,  and  descendants  of  the  same. 


"The  Passing  of  the  Mother"— page  106.  This  poem  refers  to  Mrs.  Mary  A. 
Bickerdyke,  generally  known  among  the  soldiers  of  our  Civil  War,  as  "Mother 
Bickerdyke."  She  was  a  wonderful  combination  of  the  sympathetic  and  the 
heroic,  and  was  sincerely  mourned  by  all  who  knew  her  and  her  wonderful  his 
tory  as  a  war-nurse. 


"Gridley"— page    113.      Captain    Charles  E.   Gridley,   Commander  of  Dewey's 
flagship,  was  noted  as  having  fired  the  first  shot  in  the  great  harbor-battle  in 


Notes.  157 

.Manila.  He  died  of  a  fever,  soon  after  winning  his  honors.  The  author  knew 
him  from  boyhood,  and  his  struggles  to  reach  the  proud  position  that  he  held 
at  the  time  of  his  death. 


"Comin*  Back  to  'Pelier"— page  115.  This  was  published  and  copied  in  news 
papers  throughout  United  States,  several  months  before  Admiral  Dewey  came 
home  from  his  Manila  triumph.  The  author  had  the  privilege  of  seeing  his 
prophecy  fulfilled,  and  of  witnessing  the  wonderful  welcome  given  to  the  ocean- 
warrior  at  his  home  town,  Montpelier,  Vermont,  on  October  12,  1899. 


"Colloquy   of   Grief"— page   122:    written  the  next  day  after  the  death  of  our 
latest    martyr-President—William    McKinley. 


"Liberty's  Torch"— page  126:  referring  to  the  fact  that  the  torch  of  Bar- 
tholdi's  Statue  of  Liberty,  in  New  York  Harbor,  was  for  several  nights  left  un- 
lighted,  on  account  of  the  expense.  This  poem  was  published  during  that  pe 
riod.  The  light  is  now,  the  author  is  glad  to  say,  beaming  as  brightly  as  ever. 


"The  Funeral-Express"— page  133.  This  was  written  upon  a  train  running 
daily  from  Chicago  to  two  cemeteries  several  miles  outside  the  city.  Several 
funerals  are  upon  each  train— the  bodies  all  being  placed  in  a  special  car,  con 
veniently  arranged  with  niches  for  that  purpose.  The  daily  excursion  to  these 
fields  of  the  dead  form  a  most  impressive  study,  and  the  author  has  often  ac 
companied  them. 

"To  the  Czar"— page  139.  This  was  written  in  April,  1899,  at  the  time  Nicho 
las  II.  made  an  effort  to  have  war  abolished.  It  has  not  been  recorded  that  he 
adopted  the  suggestion  made  in  the  last  few  lines. 

"Song-bird  in  the  dark"— page  142.  For  eighty-one  years  the  renowned 
hymn-writer,  Fanny  Crosby,  has  been  deprived  of  sight;  and  during  most  of 
that  time,  has  been  writing  hymns,  which  are  sung  in  every  part  of  the  civi 
lized  world. 


THB    END. 


SV-jSb    TO     ...00 
OVERDUE. 


21-100m-8,'34 


Carleton. 
Songs  of 


775701 

two  centuries 


953 

C281 

— 8— 


775701 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


